


I've Changed My Plea To Guilty

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: A tiny bit of side Stumporta, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Hooker!Pete, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-02 04:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 157,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: It wasn't Patrick's fault that this particular hooker caught his attention.But there was something about Pete that made him stand out: the small semi-smile on his lips, the mischievous look in his eyes, the lascivious way he batted his lashes, the confident, almost provocative way he leaned against the wall. The promise of dangerously delicious debauchery and sin; the promise of somethingmore.Patrick was just curious to see if the hooker could keep that promise.





	1. Let The Right One Slip In

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title taken from a Morrissey song.
> 
> My eternal gratitude goes to @SelketsChild, who was kind enough to be a beta reader for this.~

Patrick considered himself to be content.

He had a successful, creative career. Music was buzzing through Patrick’s body, and he only cared about the best way to bring the music inside him to life. And when a big label in an even bigger city offered to hire him, he accepted.

He’d chosen his apartment mostly because it was close to work, but soon discovered that despite the high rent, some questionable parts of town were right around the corner. Gentrification hadn’t quite reached the district next to him, leaving an interesting metaphorical and visual gap between the mostly middle class apartment complexes on one side, and the rundown buildings not two hundred feet away.  
  
Patrick tried not to mind it, though it did work its way into one or more of his songs.

The only thing that irked him was miniscule, ridiculous, should have been ignored. He only saw it when he drove home from work late in the evening, when night had overtaken the city and sent out her creatures. Some of them took the form of pretty boys standing on the sidewalk of the street that Patrick had to drive through, and it was this that captured Patrick’s attention.  
It had taken him a while to realize why these boys were roaming the street. Once he did, though, something heavy settled in his chest.

Patrick didn’t care. Shouldn’t care. Looking at them felt so _wrong,_ like a predator hunting down its prey, or a tourist staring at the sad, caged animals at the zoo.  
  
Oh, Patrick tried his best not to stare. _Tried_ , but didn’t succeed.

There was one boy (Patrick shuddered internally at his involuntary use of this infantilizing term) that caught his attention. He had a way of drawing attention to himself even though he neither looked spectacularly beautiful (at least not that Patrick was willing to admit to himself), nor was he dressed or styled differently from the other ones. Black hair, carefully painted face, a low-cut shirt exposing the tattoos adorning his arms and neck and probably other parts of his body Patrick most certainly wasn’t thinking about. Skinny legs in skinny jeans.  
But there _was_ something about him that made him stand out: the small semi-smile on his lips, the mischievous look in his eyes, the lascivious way he batted his lashes, the confident, almost provocative way he leaned against the wall. The promise of dangerously delicious debauchery and sin; the promise of something _more_.

It didn’t help that the boy noticed Patrick on several occasions when Patrick drove by, and each time he sent him a pernicious grin and a knowing look.  
  
_Damn._ Patrick pretended not to notice.

 

 

Until one day, when Patrick found himself driving down the street with a bundle of cash in his wallet and his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to see if the boy would keep that promise written on his face, and hopefully afterwards he could forget about him forever. _Just get him out of my system, satisfy my curiosity. That’s all._ Patrick stopped the car in front of the building that the boy was leaning against, and rolled down his window. He didn’t really know how to approach the boy; how does one address a hooker?

Each second of passing time branched into a million possible outcomes. An alternate version of Patrick rolled up the window again and drove off into the night, far, far away from the unknown boy at whom his current self was currently staring, at a loss of what to do.

Thankfully for him (or not, Patrick wasn’t sure), the boy noticed his staring. He walked over to the car, casually leaning into the opened window and peeking into Patrick’s personal space. Patrick clutched the steering wheel a little tighter, trying not to seem as nervous as he was.

“You like what you see?” the boy asked nonchalantly, a faint smile on his sinful lips. Now that he was closer, he looked slightly older – his face announcing an anonymous age somewhere in his twenties.

Patrick nodded. “Come with me,” he managed to say as calm and collected as possible.

The boy – _guy_ , rather, Patrick thought; classifying him as being of age took off some of the edge of what he was about to commit – snickered in response, throwing Patrick a cocky gaze. “I’d sure like to, Sir,” he cooed, his mocking undertone somewhat negating his obedient words.

“Before I join you in your wonderful car, though,” he continued, now in a more neutral tone, “payment is upfront. You tell me what you want, I tell you what I get for it. You hand me the money, and I perform the requested services.” His eyes had lost their playfulness, looking at Patrick evenly, trying to judge if his potential customer would refuse to pay, or back off completely. But Patrick simply nodded again, and the wary look on the young man’s face was instantly replaced with the former smug semi-smile. “So, tell me then,” he said, “what does a pretty boy like you want to do with a dirty man like me?”  
  
Patrick huffed in disapproval. “First off,” he started, “you are not going to refer to me as ‘pretty boy’, or any other demeaning, ridiculous pet names.”  
  
“What is it that you desire then, Sir?” The hooker repeated his initial question, though his politeness still felt more like mockery to Patrick.  
  
“I want you,” Patrick answered.  
  
“Now, that is quite obvious,” the young man observed, “but the question is, what exactly do you want? Handjob, oral, anal, topping or bottoming? Special requests? Any kinks?”

Patrick cleared his throat, reminding himself that he was really doing this, and actually needed to answer the questions, act like this was a simple business transaction. He was merely a customer.  
His gaze brushed over the young man again; lips still curled into a smile, tattoos peeking out from his sleeves, and though currently not in Patrick’s field of view, skinny jeans clinging tightly to even skinnier legs.  
  
The alternate version of Patrick would probably be home by now, alone, away from questionable prostitutes, maybe watching a movie or working on the song that had been occupying his mind for days.  
  
But _this_ version of Patrick was still in his car, about to be joined by a hooker, his mind occupied with thinking of what sexual task to purchase from warm lips and a hot mouth with the cold, hard cash in his wallet.

“No kinks, no. I want to keep it simple for now. You will blow me, and then I will fuck you. You will bottom.” He was surprised how bold he was, and how easily these unusual, crude words rolled off his tongue. The other man’s bold behavior somehow let him forget his initial shyness. Patrick felt calm and collected; he was just asking for what soon would be rightfully his.

The hooker nodded in assurance. “Excellent,” he said, “Clean and simple. You’re a man of few words. I like that.” He offered Patrick another grin, one that exposed his teeth and painted a mischievous sparkle into his brown eyes. “A few more rules though,” he continued, “Condoms are required both for anal and oral, and supplemented by me. I will not put any toys in me that I did not bring myself. No pictures, no videos, and no injuries to be left on my body. Think you can do that?”

“I am fine with that,” Patrick confirmed, “so, name your price.”

The hooker did, and Patrick wordlessly pressed a bundle of bills into his hands, before leaning over and opening the passenger door.  “Get in.”  
“Opening the door for me? Quite the gentleman you are, Sir,” the hooker remarked. Patrick only rolled his eyes in response. “That’s a low standard for rewarding someone with the title of a gentleman.”  
  
“You’re right. A true gentleman probably would have asked for my name first, before negotiating the terms of sexual intercourse.”  
  
Patrick blinked, slightly surprised at this. The guy was absolutely right; he’d been so nervous, it hadn’t even occurred to him. “So, what’s your name then?” he asked, confused that he was feeling a slight pang of guilt.  
  
“Call me Pete. Unless you have a specific name in mind for me?”  
  
Patrick shook his head. “No, any name is fine. ‘Pete’ will do.”  
  
The hooker – _Pete_ , Patrick reminded himself – leaned over to him, and his fingers brushed over the backside of Patrick’s right hand. “What do I call you then? Want to give me your name, or is ‘Sir’ more to your liking?”  
  
Patrick withdrew from the touch, and looked over to the grinning guy, no, the grinning _hooker_ sitting in his passenger seat. “It’s Patrick. I don’t live too far from here, maybe five minutes, but you should still put on your seatbelt.”  
  
“If the cops pull you over, me not wearing a seatbelt will be the least of your concerns,” Pete pointed out, but still did as he was told.

Patrick turned his eyes and attention to the street, and Pete discreetly shoved the money into his boots.

 

 

When they got to Patrick’s apartment, Pete made his way inside, followed by his host. The hooker’s presence made everything else look slightly off, and Patrick blinked in mild confusion as he looked around. Everything looked exactly the way he left it, only now there was a pretty stranger standing in the middle of his living room with his hands shoved into the pockets of his skinny jeans, and a dashing smile. It was surreal.  
  
Unsure of what to do, Patrick took his time taking off his hat and shoes, then putting away his car keys, each movement in slow motion.

Pete used the time to pace around the living room, carefully observing his surroundings. Patrick eyed him with suspicion; having a stranger – _a hooker, no less_ – inspect his apartment made him uncomfortable.

“There’s nothing worth stealing in here, so don’t bother thinking about it,” Patrick found himself saying.  
  
“I wasn’t,” Pete said indignantly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m a hooker, not a thief. Though I do think that your instruments might be worth something. But don’t worry, they’re too big to smuggle out under my shirt. Pity.” His tone had become annoyed.  
  
Embarrassed, Patrick opened his mouth, and closed it again when he couldn’t think of an answer. His face burned with the blush he knew was coloring his face.

“You’re pretty bad at this,” Pete observed, then let out a small and surprisingly ugly laugh. “First time, huh? I knew you were a virgin with whores.”

Patrick closed his eyes and tried to regain control over himself and the situation. _Focus, focus_ … Pete’s tempting mouth appeared before his inner eye, and suddenly it crossed Patrick’s mind that he most certainly wasn’t the only one who had paid to see these lips fulfill their promise of wickedly sweet relief, probably not even the first one tonight. Who knows whose hands had handled the young man’s body, traced over his tattoos, touched and clutched and left invisible stains on him.

Patrick pointed his hand towards the door to his left. “Here’s the bathroom. Take a shower first. You should find everything you need inside.”  
  
“Want to join me in the shower?” Pete asked and raised an eyebrow.   
  
Patrick shook his head. “No.”  
  
“I see. Don’t want to touch the dirty hooker until they scrubbed themselves _clean_?”  
  
“That is your interpretation, not mine,” Patrick answered, not wanting to admit that there was a certain truth to Pete’s words. The hooker had experience, he knew this game and its players far better than Patrick. Still, it made Patrick angry that he was so easily readable to a guy he just picked up off the streets. “You talk too much. Just go take a shower, and make it quick.”

Pete shrugged, then made his way to the bathroom. Soon the sound of running water replaced the silence, and Patrick grew increasingly uncomfortable. Pete’s presence still stained his apartment, the unnerving knowledge of having brought home a _hooker, a whore, a street rat earning his living by exchanging sex for money_ settling into his brain. Was this a good idea? Patrick wasn’t sure anymore, if he had ever really been sure to begin with. What the hell was even happening right now?

_You’re in control_ , Patrick reminded himself. _You paid him to do what you want_.  
  
What exactly that was, Patrick didn’t want to think of right now. He decided to pour himself two fingers of whiskey and wait for Pete to emerge from the bathroom – all clean and ready to be tainted again by yet another dirty John. A dirty _Patrick_.

 

One half of the drink was gone by the time Pete exit the bathroom in nothing but a towel.  
  
“Figured I could spare myself getting dressed again,” he explained, “unless you wanted to undress me?” Patrick shook his head, silently looking at the hooker’s body. Tattoos previously hidden by fabric, as well as a dangerous amount of tan skin, were in full view now.

Patrick stared at the other man and tried to pretend his heart wasn’t hammering in his chest. He fiddled with the glass in his hands before putting it down on the coffee table with an involuntary sigh. He was at a loss of where to begin. _Saying_ it had been easy, but _doing_ anything was much harder. He was no virgin, but Pete had been right: he was completely unknown to prostitutes.  
  
Pete must have picked up on that; not like his helpless look was hard to interpret. So, he did what he no doubt sometimes had to do, and made the first step. And the second. And the third. Finally, he was directly in front of Patrick with his hands on Patrick’s upper arms.

He craned downward so he could meet his client’s eyes. “You want me?” he whispered, then brushed his lips against Patrick’s reddened ears and let his fingers dance along what little exposed skin he could find. Pete’s mouth met Patrick’s in a gentle, almost chaste kiss, but Patrick turned his head, silently denying any further kisses on the mouth.  
  
Instead, Patrick’s lips found their way all over Pete’s body. They traced his temples, ran along cheekbones and chin until they found the soft, inviting warmth of Pete’s neck. It smelled clean and neutral after a fresh shower, but there was still a trace of Pete’s own scent on his tanned skin. Patrick couldn’t deny that it was turning him on. He buried his face there, mouth open and wet and breathy against Pete’s skin.  
  
His hands had likewise begun to roam over Pete’s hips, feeling the heat of his body through the damp towel.  
  
“Get rid of this,” Patrick commanded, and Pete obeyed. Patrick carelessly kicked the towel aside once it was on the floor.

Pete ran his fingertips over Patrick’s collar, then began unbuttoning his shirt, but before he could continue, Patrick pushed his hands away and took a step back.

“Don’t,” he said, annoyed. There was a slight hint of disgust mixed in his voice.  
  
“You’re pretty squeamish for a man who just brought home a hooker,” Pete pointed out, raising his eyebrows in amusement and disbelief. “You _paid_ me for touching you, remember?”  
  
“I can undress myself. And let me rephrase that: Don’t just touch me without permission. I don’t like grabby dudes, and the only part I paid you to touch is my cock.”

“Suit yourself then, I guess,” Pete answered, shrugged, and watched as Patrick carefully undid his shirt’s buttons, then unclasped his belt and undid his pants. He took a brief look at the other man, already completely undressed, and almost regretted telling the hooker (the very slim, very fit, very _pretty_ hooker) to drop the towel. Being naked was… too much. Too intimate, and way too intimidating.    
  
Patrick decided to keep his unbuttoned shirt and his undershirt on for now, but slowly slid down his pants, and with slight embarrassment noticed that he was already semi-hard. _Just from a few looks and kisses_ , he thought; this whole situation was alarmingly arousing in ways Patrick hadn’t anticipated.

After hesitating a moment, he made his way to the couch. Standing up while getting blown has never been his thing, and the thought of jittery legs, stumbling backwards, and potentially embarrassing himself in front of a stranger (a stranger he had just _paid_ for _sex_ , no less) was not very alluring.  
  
Pete walked over to his newest client and stood in front of him a moment, his expression unreadable, then knelt between his legs. He inspected Patrick’s semi with professional interest, as if he could calculate how long Patrick would last and what kind of techniques he preferred just by looking. Maybe he could, but before he had further time to dwell on this thought, or any thought for that matter, Pete began to touch him. His skilled fingers trailed along winding veins on the shaft, gently rubbed the swollen head, and then made their way back to the base, brushing along the gingery patch of copper pubic hair.

“My, my, what an admirable sight, dear Patrick – wouldn’t have pegged you for being so well-endowed!” Pete cooed, his merciless hands still stroking Patrick’s growing hard-on.

“I bet you say that to all the guys,” Patrick gasped, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

Pete let out another ugly laugh, one of his hands grasping the base in a tight grip, the other one oh so cruelly continuing the light strokes over the head. Patrick bit his lip in an attempt to keep his moaning as well as his breathing under control. He had to hand it to Pete: he knew what he was doing.

_Obviously,_ his mind chided. _Pete’s_ _done this before, a million times, on countless other guys, practiced on who knows how many_ _anonymous Johns, (anonymous Patricks) wrapped those nimble fingers around the dicks of all the faceless ghosts of the men who came before me_.

_I guess a lot of guys_ **_came_ ** _before me_ , Patrick thought darkly, and bit back a laugh almost as ugly as Pete’s.

“I’m gonna get the condom,” Pete announced. Patrick only answered with a nod, not even trusting his voice to deliver anything that wouldn’t be completely insulting, let alone cool or smooth. The sound of the torn plastic wrapping ripped right through the silence. Pete swiped the condom over Patrick’s dick, rolling the rubber down with a concentrated face. When he was pleased with the results, he firmly grabbed it like it was a wrapped present just for him, and brought his mouth closer. He licked his lips (wrong, oh so wrong, sin enough to warrant an eternity in hell), and then slowly took Patrick into his mouth.

 

Patrick had to admit, the condom was kind of a letdown. No matter how thin and how true to life the device promised to be, it remained an artificial barrier between two bodies. Pete’s mouth was still warm, though, radiating heat, and the faint promise of slick skin was still there, so close and yet so far away. That talented tongue still caressed his shaft  in ways that Patrick didn’t know were possible. He started out slow, first just taking the head, his lips wrapping around the underside, his right hand firmly holding Patrick in place and his left hand trailing down to his balls.   
  
“Can I - ?” Patrick stuttered, grabbing Pete’s hair instead of finishing the sentence.  
  
Pete pulled away, his mouth now free to speak. He was looking at Patrick with curiosity in his eyes, saliva staining his face. “You can pull my hair. I must warn you though – I might have exceptional control over my gag reflex, but I’m only human, and –“  
  
“I don’t care,” Patrick interjected, “’m not gonna go too far. Not interested in you throwing up on my dick.”  
  
“Some dudes are into that,” Pete remarked casually, and Patrick groaned impatiently, tugging Pete’s hair again. Hearing about the questionable preferences of other customers was the last thing Patrick wanted right now.  
  
“Just shut up and keep going.”

Pete licked his lips, and seconds later they were on Patrick again, forming the prettiest frame around his dick. Patrick was glad that he was relieved of the need to speak, as nothing but fast breathing and held-back moans came out of his mouth. Pete looked at Patrick through half-veiled eyes, one hand carefully placed on the base of Patrick’s cock. His muscles worked under inked skin, tattoos dancing along to his movements. It was captivating, intriguing; it looked _dirty_.  
  
Patrick didn’t dare to look back after the first brief glance, or he wasn’t going to last. Instead, he leaned his head back on the couch and Pete’s mouth massage him and bring him closer and closer to the edge. It was so good, even with the condom, and he began undulating his hips in rhythm with Pete’s movements while he pulled helplessly at tufts of his black hair. His moans mixed with the slide of that wet mouth on him were the only sounds in the otherwise silent gloom of the apartment.

Just as Patrick started to feel his orgasm pooling low in his belly, hot and rolling like liquid,  Pete pulled off and shot his client (that’s what Patrick was, _a client_ ) a questioning look.    
  
“You want to come now,” he asked, “or you want to come later when you fuck me?”  
  
Patrick was almost in agony, he was so close, and knew he looked like pure desperation. “Fuck, Pete, don’t you dare to stop, wanna come now…” he groaned, ashamed of how needy he sounded, how under Pete’s power. Thankfully, Pete didn’t ask anything else, and Patrick’s dick was back in that tight, teasing warmth.

Almost immediately, that volcanic sensation was building inside him again, and soon he was exploding, the heat and pleasure sending shock waves through every muscle as he spasmed and cried out, burying his hands deeper into black hair and exhaling sharply. It was hard, intense, it was dirty, dirty, _dirty_.  
  
It was everything Patrick had wished for.

 

Air found its way back to Patrick’s lungs, and reality found its way back to his brain. With a skilled movement, the young man between his legs removed the condom.  
  
“Trash,” Patrick managed to say as he pointed into the vague direction of the kitchen. Pete left, and based on the sounds coming from the kitchen, he soon disposed of the used rubber in the garbage can. Patrick stood up, the afterglow slowly leaving his body. He frowned at the spit stain left on the cushions, and pulled his briefs back up before sitting down at a different spot.

Pete came back, still completely naked. Patrick crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to stare. Which was ridiculous, he had paid to see, he had every right to stare, right? Still, the carefree attitude of the hooker was unnerving.

“Go get dressed. It’s too cold to run around naked.”  
  
“I like being naked,” Pete replied. “Besides, who are you, my mother?”  
  
“No, but I am currently the one paying you, so I’m in charge,” Patrick answered, digging his nails a little deeper into his arms.  
  
“Undressing me again is just going to cost you time, ‘Trick.”  
  
Patrick decided to ignore the newfound nickname for now. “Like I just said, I have a right to decide what to do with the time I paid for, right?”  
  
A mischievous smile appeared on Pete’s face. “You’re figuring out this whore business pretty fast,” he snickered, before making his way to the bathroom, where he had left his clothes. The door slammed shut, and Patrick grabbed the glass with the remaining whiskey from the coffee table. He tossed it back, his hand shaking, and blew out a slow breath.

 

The bathroom door opened, and Pete re-entered the room fully dressed again, throwing his bag near the hallway. He held an unlit cigarette in one hand, and a lighter in another. “Hey, Tricky. Care if I smoke?”  
  
“Don’t. I hate the smell of smoke, and it makes me cough.” Patrick narrowed his eyes; the other man seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then sighed and put the cigarette back into his bag.

“So, want to get ready for the next part? Blowing you was pretty good, but I bet being fucked by you will be much more fun…” The hooker leaned over him, playfully running his fingers along Patrick’s chest.  
  
“Don’t,” Patrick snarled as he instinctively raised his hands, and pushed the other body away from him. Pete took a step backwards, looking at Patrick with raised eyebrows. “I told you, don’t do that,” Patrick repeated in a gentler voice. “Don’t just touch me. I hate that.”  
  
He expected the hooker to laugh again, or make fun of him. But Pete simply nodded, face blank and voice neutral. “Fine. I got it now, no touching anything of you unless permitted. Won’t happen again.”  
  
Guilt flashed through Patrick’s mind for a brief moment. _You paid him to do what you want_ , he reminded himself, and tried to relax a little. _What you want, and only that_.

Still, this was a person, one who didn’t need to be treated so rudely. Patrick bit his lip. “I didn’t mean to push you.”  
  
Pete sent him a surprised look, before shaking his head. “Don’t worry. I’ve had worse things happen to me, Patty.”  
  
Patrick frowned. “Stop with the silly nicknames.”  
  
“No smoking, no touching, no pet names, so bossy,” Pete commented nonchalantly, an expectant look in his eyes, the grin back on his lips. “You really dig being in control.”  
  
“So I’ve heard,” Patrick answered, absent-mindedly clutching his hands together in his lap.

 

Pete seemed to be testing the waters with Patrick, seeing how far he could go. Patrick felt a slight annoyance, mixed with a strain of anger. The tattooed hooker had a certain aura of smugness to him, a brash boldness that was infuriating, and everything in his attitude was just begging to be _smashed, broken, torn into pieces_. Patrick wanted to wipe that stupid grin from these pretty lips, and he wanted to replace Pete’s silly words with the undignified sounds of sex, lustful moans and begging, begging, _begging_ for him, Patrick. For release, for humiliation.  
  
He tried to push away these thoughts, and tried not to think of why exactly all of this was so alluring to him. Something in Pete brought out a nastiness in Patrick which he never knew he possessed.

 

Silence settled between them, and Patrick’s gaze fell upon the almost empty tumbler on the coffee table. “You want anything to drink?” He asked, more out of the need to do or say anything, and to have an excuse to get himself another drink.  
  
“Something without alcohol, please. I’m on duty, after all,” Pete answered, and winked at Patrick.  
  
“Right,” Patrick replied mechanically, and made his way to the kitchen. The hooker followed him, leaning against the doorframe and peeking over Patrick’s shoulder into the open fridge. “Can of soda is fine with me,” he said, and Patrick handed him whatever was closest without really looking at it.  
  
“Thank you, _Patrick_.” Pete made sure to put an extra emphasize on the name; as if he wanted confirm that he understood Patrick’s vehement denial of any previous deviations of his name.

 

Patrick prepared himself for awkward silence, for an uncomfortable lack of words and the mental accusations of being _boring, boring, so boring_. But the hooker seemed quite content with not talking. He sipped the beverage offered to him, eyed Patrick's instruments, and waited for the right moment.  
  
When Patrick sat down his now empty whiskey tumbler, he felt a hand tugging at his shirt, and heard the already familiar voice of a stranger.  
  
“You ready now?” Pete asked, cunning smile back on his lips and confidence restored.

“Bedroom,” Patrick said breathlessly, and put his hand on Pete’s hips to guide him.

They made their way to the bed, Patrick impatiently fiddling the zipper on those skin-tight pants, mentally cursing himself for telling Pete to get dressed again. The hooker was right, it was a waste of time, a useless obstacle, an irritatingly uncooperative garment –  
  
“Let me,” Pete offered, “I’ve had more practice getting out of these.” Within seconds, the pants were on the floor, soon followed by the shirt.

Once more, all that delicious, inked skin was revealed, and Patrick clutched his hands into Pete’s hips, his brain a chorus of _mine, mine, mine_. His hands wandered down, only to realize that there wasn’t any item of clothing left. Just the hooker’s naked body. Patrick swallowed.

“Don’t let me be naked all by myself,” Pete hummed, giving a poor impression of coyness. “I’m so embarrassed! Why don’t you get rid of your clothes, too…”  
  
“It’s too late to pull off shyness convincingly,” Patrick said, finding himself smiling. And also somehow finding himself sliding off his unbuttoned shirt, along with the undershirt and his briefs.

“See,” Pete whispered, “much better…” His mouth was close to Patrick’s ear, his whole body just close enough for Patrick to smell a faint hint of sweat, to feel the heat coming off another body, and just distant enough to make him yearn for more.  
  
Patrick’s mouth went to Pete’s collarbone, explored the feelings of muscles stretching along his shoulders, felt his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as Pete swallowed and let out a laugh.  
  
“Told ya you’re figuring out this whore business pretty fast,” he snickered, “want me to reciprocate? I could-“  
  
“I want you to shut up,” Patrick said in a low voice, “told you, you’re talking too much.” He pulled his head up, and his hands away from the other body. “Lay down.”

Pete let himself fall on the bed, limbs sprawled out and a playful grin on his face. “So, how do you want me, Patrick?”  
  
“I want you _now_ ,” Patrick replied, lowering himself on top of the other man, bodies close to each other and faces even closer. “Just stay like this,” he added, one hand on one of Pete’s parted thighs, the other one on his rapidly rising and falling chest.

“Condom first,” Pete whispered. His right hand was hovering over Patrick’s shoulder, as though he wanted to touch, but was holding back.  
Patrick noticed the gesture, and wasn’t sure how he felt about the other man _not_ touching him. _You told him not to touch you,_ he reminded himself. _You told him, he obeyed. That’s what he’s here for, after all._  
  
Patrick sat up. “Go,” he said, “and bring the lube, too.”  
  
“Oh Patrick, you silver-tongued devil,” Pete laughed, as he made his way to his backpack to grab the requested items.

Just a few moments later, Pete sat down on the bed again, curiously looking at Patrick. “So,” he started, “how do you want to-?”  
  
“Just hand me the lube,” Patrick interrupted him, “and get back into whatever position you were before.”

 

Patrick felt the cool, slick liquid on his fingers, then the warmth of the hooker’s body swallowing his first, second, third finger.  
  
“Yeah, Patrick, just like this, keep going, please, please –“ Pretty little lies effortlessly rolling off his tongue (names and faces easily interchangeable), “mmm, don’t stop!-“

Patrick removed his fingers from Pete’s insides, only to place his hand on Pete’s dick, and his own dick right in front of Pete’s lubricated, widened entrance.  
  
“Condom,” Pete reminded him again before effortlessly rolling the stupid thing down over him.

Patrick slid himself inside Pete’s body, tightness and warmth enveloping him like before. Only, this was better. _More_.

Patrick took a brief pause once he was buried to the hilt to glance at the young man laying underneath him –  flat planes of muscle writhing, his forehead damp with sweat, messy hair, makeup smeared, flushed face. He looked _dirty_ ; he looked _perfect_.  
  
Pete was warm and welcoming, his skin was soft and his dick hard under Patrick’s fingers, his eyes overshadowed by half-closed lids and black eyelashes. Patrick found himself entranced, unable to take his eyes off the pretty stranger underneath him. He barely registered the loud breathing and soft moans escaping his own lips, too caught up in the moment and in the other man’s body.  His left hand found itself on Pete’s hip, guiding him to a precise rhythm matching the pace of his right hand and the rest of his body.

Pete gasped, he moaned, made all the appropriate noises required in such situations. Patrick wasn’t sure how much of it was real and how much of it was nothing but a well-rehearsed act (a play that had been performed for countless other gullible Johns, so many other _Patricks_ , enjoyed by the cheering, faceless crowd of all his former lovers, dozens, hundreds of other men applauding and approving of them now, Patrick’s wild brain seemingly blending reality and the desperate need for pretense into an easy-to-digest lie). Nevertheless, the erratic breathing, hands clutching the sheets, flushed cheeks, and hungry-looking whiskey eyes were all Patrick needed to lull him into a false sense of reality. And Pete’s dick still felt hard in his hand, leaking drops of pre-come, making Patrick feeling secretly triumphant over this unmistakable sign of arousal.

Pete tossed his head around, mouth opened.  
  
“You want me to make you come?” Patrick hissed, hand still on the other man’s dick, “then make me _want_ to make you to come.”  
  
A moment of silence as the hooker underneath him took a deep breath (preparing stale, overused words for new, inexperienced ears), before his sweet lips delivered the saccharine words Patrick had wanted to hear so desperately.  
  
“Please, Patrick, don’t stop, wanna come,” Pete exclaimed, “want you, want you, want you-!”  
  
Patrick greedily absorbed each word, stroking Pete’s cock viciously in time with his thrusts.

“More,” Patrick found himself saying, “not enough, Pete, more!” The words he had wanted to hear from the hooker somehow found their way out of his own mouth, an embarrassing, needy plea, but Patrick was past the point of rationally analyzing and properly filing away his words. Thankfully for him, Pete was not past the point of registering their meaning.  
  
“More, Patrick,” the hooker moaned, arching his back and pressing closer to him, “I want more of you, _fuck_ , more, harder, please, _more_!”  
  
Somewhere between these stuttered syllables, Patrick felt Pete come, partially losing control over his body as as all his meaningless words were lost in a frantic wail. His hands came toward Patrick for a moment, about to try to touch him, but instead fisted in the sheets once again.

Patrick increased his rhythm, slamming into the hooker’s body with increased speed and force, nails digging into someone else’s skin - hungrily, greedily. Pete still supplied the occasional moan, but his head was turned to the side, eyes now closed (maybe behind closed eyelids, a better world was awaiting the hooker, one were the unwelcome sight of unknown men didn’t haunt his peripherals, where the intruding hands of strangers were simply invisible and insignificant to him). 

He pushed this thought away as his orgasm ripped through him, a little less intense than the first, but still roaring through his ears and his chest and his belly as he thrust into Pete with all his might, chasing that teasing warmth, just beyond his reach. He tried to hold his voice back, not wanting to say all the desperate things that crowded his brain, and instead loosed an embarrassing high-pitched whine from his throat.

He pulled out, drenched in sweat, and Pete sat up, trained fingers removing the condom in one swift move. “ _Trash_ ,” Pete snarked, mocking his client's remark from earlier, before disappearing into the kitchen.

 

“You stayed longer than I paid for,” Patrick observed after he returned.  
  
“Don’t worry, _Patrick_ ,” Pete smiled, putting undue emphasis on his name. Patrick figured it was to avoid using another crappy nickname. “It’s not too much, so I’ll make an exception this time. But, you kind of owe me now.”  
  
“What do I owe you?” Patrick replied impatiently. The thought of owing the hooker anything made him feel uncomfortable. Took away his power, his sense of control over the situation. “Let me know how much, and we can just settle up and be done.”  
  
Pete just shrugged, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Just pay me back next time with a generous tip.”

“Next time?” Patrick asked irritated, but the hooker just winked, slinging his backpack over his shoulders.

 

“See you, Patrick.”

 

And then he left, the door shutting behind him with a surprisingly loud sound. Patrick hadn’t noticed how quiet the night had been, how quiet all his nights had been before now. How silent his now empty apartment was.

He let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, and released a tension from his muscles that had been just as unnoticed. _Next time_ , he thought, feeling slightly nauseous as he recalled how certain the hooker had sounded when saying that.  
  
It was the same confidence he’d put into his pesky grin, expressed with just little gestures and the subtle undertones in his voice, always on the edge of sarcasm, always challenging, always seeming to be asking for more, _more, harder, faster_ - 

Patrick had wanted to break him, he knew that now, but he felt like the only thing broken now was himself. He stood up and headed for the shower, mentally trying to pick up the pieces of his former self, to put them back together into the neat, clean, calm, and collected version of the Patrick from _before_.

Meanwhile, the _new_ , dirty version of himself, the Patrick that existed _after Pete_ , had emerged from the ruins of this day and was already looking forward to the hooker’s promise about a _next time_.

_They say the first time is always free_ . Well, this hadn’t been free, not by any stretch. Pete had just given enough of a “deal”, enough of a lure, to make him want to come back for more, to come again, and maybe again and again and again. Like all the others. Now Patrick understood that tone, the way Pete had said his name. _I know you now. Your name, where you live, what you like. You tried to stay clean, stay better than the filthy prostitute, but I still dirtied you up, didn’t I? I own a part of you now, and you’ll be back._

 

_Yes,_ Patrick thought. _I will._

 


	2. Pretty Boys Make Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick comes back to Pete, despite his best attempts to stay away. 
> 
> We also get some insight on Pete's point of view, and meet another hooker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @SelketsChild for being such an awesome & patient beta reader!~  
> Title taken from a The Smiths song of the same name (though genders are flipped).

Patrick came back, of course.

He tried to fight it at first.

But there was an itch he couldn’t scratch, an inner restlessness that he was unable to ignore, no matter how much he immersed himself in work, listened to his favorite music, drank to soothe his nerves, or jacked off to vague, shadowy pictures of faceless people that most definitely weren’t pretty hookers named Pete.

 

A one night stand might take the edge off, he thought, albeit a bit half-heartedly. He definitely didn’t just want to go find some dude in a bar or a club; that had never been his style.

 _But a stranger off the street,_ **_that_ ** _was OK, wasn’t it?_ His mind taunted, and Patrick pushed the thought away.

 

 _Maybe someone from work,_ he mused. There was Gabe Saporta, who was part of an up and coming band recently signed to the label.

Patrick thought about it. Gabe was tall, good looking, and extroverted. He always wore colorful clothes and a winning smile.  He had charisma, looks, and a captivating personality. Gabe was someone people wanted to _see_ making music, someone people wanted to watch, _not someone only good enough to work behind the scenes_.

Patrick had also noticed that Gabe had made a habit of getting a little too close, making flirtatious comments, always lingering in Patrick’s presence longer than necessary. Even he was not so oblivious as to write Gabe’s behavior off as just coincidence or friendliness. The tension had been building up for a while, and Patrick was sure that the other man was simply waiting for a him to make a move.

Even better, no hint of tragedy or dubious illegal activities overshadowed Gabe’s carefree attitude and carefully crafted party persona. It would be a refreshing contrast.

 

But everyone was still actively working on their tracks, and it wouldn’t be professional at all to make a move on a co-worker, even if Gabe was obviously interested. He knew he already brought enough tension into the studio, just by his control-freak, high-strung nature, and riddling the already loaded atmosphere with possible awkwardness and personal feelings was a terrible idea.

 

Still, aside from all of that, in a dark corner of Patrick’s mind, another grave objection: _Nobody else was Pete._

 

So once more, Patrick found himself parking right in front of the familiar sight of a tattooed young man leaning against a wall. He was talking to another boy, the one that Patrick had frequently seen in his company before. But as soon as he noticed Patrick’s car, saw Patrick rolling down his window and looking at him, he turned away from the other boy and came closer, a grin on his face.

“Pete,” Patrick started, struggling with how to finish this sentence. “Um, nice to see you?” he said as though it were a question. His mind added, _Again_ , but that part remained unspoken.

The pesky grin widened. It almost scared him how completely unsurprised the hooker was. “Patrick. You’re back.” Pete’s tone was smug, like he’d been expecting him..

Patrick frowned, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. “How come you still remember my name?”

Pete let that ugly bark of a laugh fall from his lips, a sound that was still surprisingly endearing. “I always remember the cute ones. And so do you, right? Otherwise, why would _you_ remember _my_ name?”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. I just have very good memory,” Patrick retorted, though the words felt very unconvincing, even to himself.

“So tell me, Patrick, what do you want?” Pete looked at him expectantly.

“You,” Patrick replied quietly, then hesitated for a moment. There was still time to stop, still the possibility to abandon this place and never come back, to simply _not_ –

 

“You’ve got to learn to voice your desires in more detailed words,” Pete laughed, shaking his head. “I told you already: You need to be a little more specific.” He leaned into the car window, a smirk on his lips. “You know only a fraction of what I can do, dear Patrick. I have so much more to offer! Wanna see something different? Try another position? Experiment with some deep, dark fantasy? Test my fantastic blowjob abilities some more? Bend me over the backseat, and punish me for being a bad, bad boy-?”

“Enough,” Patrick interrupted him, trying to sound neither as nervous nor as confused as he felt. “I almost forgot how much you talk. I think I can decide for myself.”

“Make it quick,” Pete demanded in a playful voice, “or someone else might take me away!”

Patrick really did not want to think about someone else right now, especially about another John taking Pete, _taking_ Pete –

“Same as last time,” Patrick blurted out, “blowjob, and sex.”

“You sure like your routine,” Pete chirped, as Patrick tried to ignore the word _routine_ and all its implications. He still wanted to cling to the last shreds of his dignity and delusions.

 

“Now, this is the part where you pay me, remember?” Pete asked sweetly, toothy smile on his face and hand stretched out. He named his price, and Patrick pressed the money into the eagerly awaiting paw without a second look.

The drive to Patrick’s apartment was silent, though it wasn’t an unpleasant silence. Despite the hooker being so talkative, he seemed to have a good instinct on when to avoid conversation.

 

Once more, Patrick found his apartment and his personal space intruded by a strange hooker. _Though I suppose it’s not really an intrusion if I’m the one who invited him in_ , Patrick reminded himself. _And Pete isn’t exactly a_ **_stranger_ ** _anymore, is he?_

 

Maybe he wasn’t exactly, but it still felt weird, in the way of being _wrong_. Pete wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t supposed to happen again. _And yet, here we are_ , Patrick thought grimly, _no going back now._

He cleared his throat. “Bathroom,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the door to his right, “as you might remember. Take a shower, please.”

“ _Please_?” Pete repeated in a mocking tone. “Oh Patrick, how could I resist such a polite request?”

When Patrick heard the water running, he headed for the whiskey again. He figured he deserved something to soothe his nerves, especially knowing that a very naked, very gorgeous hooker would soon be in his living room.

 

As predicted, Pete wore nothing but a towel and the last drops of water on his tan skin.

“You’re fine with me being naked already?” He asked.

“Sure,” Patrick replied _. More than fine_. But he kept that part to himself. Trying to keep his hands steady, he brought the glass to his lips, relishing in the familiar burning smell and taste of its content.

His fingers itched to touch the body in front of him, trace over the tattoos, wipe away the last drops of the clean shower water only to replace it with dirty sweat, with goosebumps, with trembling skin and muscles bending to his, _Patrick’s_ , will.

 

Pete threw his arms over Patrick shoulders, leaned closer, and connected their lips. For a few seconds, Patrick almost forgot himself, almost allowed himself a silent slip-up and just _kissed back_. But he pulled away,  suddenly sure he could someone else’s mouth on Pete’s lips, could feel the ghost of someone else’s teeth scraping over the thin skin.

“Don’t,” he spat out, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No kisses.”

“’kay,” the hooker said; he raised his hands in defense and took a small step back, cautiously eyeing Patrick, “I remember now: Patrick doesn’t like kisses. I’m sorry.”

Guilt washed over Patrick, and left his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “It’s not your fault. I should have said something,” he admitted nervously.  “It’s, just that I – well, _I_ do the kissing, and _I_ do the touching.”

 

Patrick didn’t want to see Pete being so defensive, so on the edge, and he didn’t want Pete to apologize. How was Pete supposed to know his weird preferences? That one time couldn’t have been enough to remember. Patrick was nothing but another John in the never-ending stream of strangers. _Not outstanding in any way._

 

Anyway, why did he care so much how Pete _felt_ all of a sudden? And why did he care if he mattered in any way to a _hooker_?

 

“Of course. It’s your choice what we do, or don’t do.” Pete shrugged, and lowered his hands. He seemed less intimidated now, knowing Patrick’s terms and conditions (no doubt trying to memorize them for next time, and every other time after that). He licked his lips, and his trademark grin found its way back onto his face. He was back to acting confident and cocky. “You do the kissing, and you do the touching. But you want to do a lot of other naughty things too, right, Patrick…?”

“Right,” Patrick replied in a thin voice, ignoring how eerily _right_ that sounded, ignoring how Pete’s smile got even wider, more confident, _knowing_. He slightly shook his head, and straightened his back. He would not behave like a clueless fool in front of a hooker, especially not in front of _this_ hooker. Without a second thought, he tossed back the remaining whiskey from the tumbler that he still clung to like it was his last anchor to reality. He put the glass away, and looked back into Pete’s eyes.

“Right,” he repeated, now with more confidence in his voice, “and that’s exactly what you’re here for.”

“Well, then – I remembered you said something about a blowjob?” Pete batted his eyelashes, an exaggerated gesture, even more ridiculous when paired with the smug smile beneath it.

“Don’t play innocent. It doesn’t suit you at all,” Patrick remarked.

 

“I can play dirty then,” Pete said in a low voice. He sounded seductive, dangerous. “I can play _very_ dirty. You want me to play dirty, Patrick?”

 Pete took a step forward and opened his arms, an invitation to touch and be touched, and Patrick was eager to accept. His hands slid along the warm skin, and his lips trailed along those delicate-looking collarbones, over the swell of his Adam’s apple, through the hint of a stubble on the cheeks.

 “Yes,” Patrick whispered as he put his hand on the hooker’s face, “be dirty for me.”

 

It almost made him feel ridiculous to voice these crude, clichéd phrases that sounded straight out of some bad porno. He’d never say something like this to anyone else. But then again, other people weren’t this pretty hooker with a blinding smile and eyes that were challenging him to a game that Patrick refused to lose.

 Come to think of it, though, this whole thing was kind of that exact cliche. Maybe he was in a bad porno. Maybe this was all just a mistake, and he had accidentally got caught up in _someone else’s_ fantasy, and every second now he’d come to his senses.

 

Patrick’s fingers trailed over Pete’s cheekbones, then pressed against his full lips. Pete obediently opened his mouth a little wider, at first just enough to expose his teeth and the tip of his tongue. Then, there was a wet tongue against his finger, teeth lightly scraping against his skin, as the hooker took the first, then the second finger into his mouth. Pete stared at him with wide eyes, as he continued to suck, swirl his tongue, giving a preview of what certain other parts of Patrick were missing out on right now.

 

And soon, Patrick felt his dick pressing against the restrictions of his pants, aching to be attended with the same care as his fingers currently were. He could feel the rough surface of the hooker’s tongue on them, the wet saliva, the hard palate and the soft, warm inside of the cheeks.

He inhaled sharply when Pete’s teeth dug into his skin with just a little too much force. A tease, or a warning. Pete withdrew his mouth; one last gentle lick along the inner side of the index finger, then he leaned closer to Patrick.

 

“Want more?” He whispered, his breath feeling hot against Patrick’s skin.

“Yes,” Patrick mumbled, briefly wondering when he had lost the script for this scene, surrendered the upper hand, and been reduced to merely nodding along. “Yes, Pete, I want more.”

So much for coming to his senses.

 

He mechanically unzipped his pants, stumbling backwards to the couch. Pete followed closely, and knelt between his client’s legs. Patrick leaned back into the cushions, as the trained hands of an experienced hooker attended to his growing erection.

“As pretty as I remember it,” Pete cooed, tenderly running his fingers along Patrick’s dick.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Patrick huffed. “You couldn’t possibly remember me that well.

“You really need to remember to play this game a little better,” Pete replied in a scolding manner. “You’ll have a lot more fun if you just believe me.”

“Just play along, right? Believe the _lies_?” Patrick scoffed, trying to sound dismissive, but having his hard-on stroked by smooth, skillful hands made it increasingly hard to pay attention.

In Patrick’s mind, an imaginary Pete laughed, and shook his head. _I am the epitome of lies, Patrick. If you expect anything else, you are bound to be disappointed._

 

No, no, that didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was the prospect of a pretty mouth on his cock, and if the hooker could to keep the promise he had given him in the preview. He decided to ignore his brain’s objections, and just believe. _Play along._

The sweet-talking lips of the real Pete remained silent for now, too busy being wrapped around the condom that somehow, at some point, had magically ensheathed him while he’d been lost in his own head. That goddamned silver tongue, and one hand, now stroked his hard shaft gently through the latex barrier he insisted on using.

 

Pete had his eyes closed and his free hand gently resting on his client’s leg. When Patrick didn’t object the touch, he began exploring more freely. His fingers trailed along his soft stomach and down this thigh, then back up again, passing under his balls, dancing further downwards, then hesitated.

Pete withdrew his mouth for a few moments, eyeing Patrick with curiosity. “Want me to use my fingers?”

 

Patrick just shook his head. He didn’t trust his voice enough right now to deliver a proper reply.

 

“We’ll save that for another time, hm?” Pete teased, then his mouth was back to its filthy work, rendering Patrick unable to object that prediction, and unable to let anything but faint moans escape his mouth. Pete’s hands went back to Patrick’s thigh and the base of his dick.

Patrick let out an involuntary moan, and his hands found their way into damp black hair, unconsciously pulling Pete close, _closer, much too close_.

The heat of arousal spread through his body as he felt the sheer strength of the hooker’s mouth on him. The suction and friction, though dulled by the condom, still felt pretty damned good. Patrick felt himself hit the back of Pete’s throat, causing him to buck his hips as a silent plea for more, _more, more_ –

 

This time, Patrick couldn’t help but stare. He greedily drank in the sight of Pete’s body to absorb every little detail. He met the hooker’s gaze, wide brown eyes staring back lasciviously from under black lashes. And Pete looked just as captivating as Patrick remembered it, all naked and pretty, _all dirty for me_.

Patrick bit his lip, trying to hold back any further pitiful noises. He already felt close, knew he would come soon, and after an embarrassingly short amount of time. _But what does it matter_ , he thought, _I didn’t pay the hooker to judge me, just to get me off_. He shut his eyes, and concentrated on the feeling of someone else’s mouth and hands on his body. 

As expected, it didn’t take long for him to succumb to the hooker’s gorgeous mouth and teasing tongue. Soon enough he felt the burning coil of his orgasm, a familiar sensation brought on by an unfamiliar stranger. Patrick came with a muffled groan from the very back of his throat, his mind a blur of pleasure and all the unvoiced desires he bit back. Even this close, sharing something that should be intimate, they were still pretty much strangers, interlopers in each other’s worlds. Patrick wasn’t about to broach his personal barrier, any more than Pete was willing to broach _his_ protective barrier, the one that was now wrinkled and damp with bodily fluids, inside and out.

 

His fists let go of the black hair caught between them, allowing his other man to withdraw his head.

 

Pete pressed his hand over his mouth, trying his best to suppress a few small coughs escaping from his throat. Not that Patrick would have noticed; he was too immersed in the last waves of his orgasm and his own swirling thoughts to notice.

 

Pete removed and disposed of the (first) condom in the kitchen trash without having to be instructed. “As good as you remember it, I hope?” he inquired curiously when he came back into the living room.

 

“No,” Patrick replied, breath still stuck in his lungs, control still surrendered to this stranger. “ _Better_.” The word fell from his mouth unbidden, and while it was true, it was more than he wanted to admit.

More than he was ready to share with a _hooker_.

 

“Better, even?” Pete grinned, and shook his head. “You’re flattering me, Patrick!”

 

Patrick bit his lip, but it was too late to take his words back. _Pathetic. I need to be more careful. Don’t give him too much ammo. Don’t give him power over me._

 

Despite his best efforts, Patrick was still gasping. The cold air against his skin made him painfully aware of how hot and sweaty he was, face flushed, mouth half-open, and disheveled hair sticking to his forehead. He could feel the wetness between his thighs, where his sweat and cum mixed together and created an uncomfortable, sticky layer on his skin.

He wished he would have gotten rid of his shirt; he could already feel the sweat stains forming around the armpits. _Gross._ Patrick ran his hand through his hair, feeling slightly self-conscious without a hat on. There was nothing to hide underneath, nothing to conceal himself with.

 

He felt _exposed_.

 

The hooker was breathing steadily again, all traces of sex and saliva successfully wiped away from his face. His pretty mouth was back to displaying a smug semi-smile as if nothing happened, and even the ridiculous make up around his eyes had somehow stayed intact.

Pete was still naked, but he wore his body with a lot more grace. No trace of insecurity or unease, just the shameless display of delicious skin, a flat stomach, jutting hip bones, and swirling tattoos. The sinful sight of a small trail of hair traveling down from his navel to his groin. His cock currently resting beneath a particularly unusual tattoo in a nest of coarse black hair, between thighs that were just begging their (many, many) lovers to stroke, squeeze, and grab onto them.

 

Patrick felt an irritating pang of jealousy. Even though Pete knelt before him, totally uncovered and vulnerable, beneath him in literally every way, he still had a way to attract attention, something that demanded to be noticed. It had drawn Patrick’s gaze and interest on the street corner, and it was drawing his interest now, even in his own home.Pete’s presence dominated the room, _his space_ , and dominated Patrick’s mind (and undoubtedly, the minds of many others). He knew what he had to offer, knew he was pretty, _something to look at_.

 

Patrick wasn’t meant to be looked at _, Patrick_ wasn’t _pretty, I have nothing to offer to Pete aside from money –_

 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

 

The question threw Patrick off. He blinked in confusion, trying to make sense of what the hooker was asking him. 

“What? Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?” Patrick asked, trying not to sound as agitated as he was.

 

Pete was looking at him curiously. “For someone who just got the blowjob of a lifetime, you still look pretty unsatisfied.”

 

“It’s nothing. I was just lost in my thoughts for a moment.”

 

Thankfully, there were no more questions. Pete just shrugged, and Patrick looked away from that dark, penetrating gaze, glad that Pete was going to accept _his_ lies, too.

 

With an involuntary grunt, Patrick stood up from the couch. He stretched his limbs, and grabbed the whiskey tumbler –  only to find it empty. _When did I even drink this?_ He wondered. Somewhere between nervousness and arousal, he’d emptied his glass, but he still found himself on edge, in need of a little more liquid courage.

 

“You want anything to drink?” Patrick asked, and hesitated for a moment as he recalled last time. “Nothing with alcohol, if I remember correctly?”

Pete nodded. “You do remember it right, Patrick. We’re really getting to know each other, hm?”

 

Ignoring that smug smile, Patrick went into the kitchen. He came back with his refilled glass in one hand, and an unopened can of soda in the other.

 

“Anything else I can get you?” Patrick felt obliged to ask. _After all, isn’t Pete still a guest?_

 

Pete seemed to contemplate that offer for a moment as he popped the can open and drank. “You’re not a smoker, right?”

Patrick firmly shook his head. “No.”

“Then I’m fine, thanks.” Pete seemed content to go back to being silent.

 

Relieved that he wasn’t expected to make silly small talk, Patrick found himself relaxing again. The alcohol in his hands was sure to help that, too. As he took a careful sip, Patrick allowed himself another glance at the naked man in his living room _.And why not? I have every right to look. I’m not doing anything wrong_.

 

Pete strolled around, seeming completely at ease wearing absolutely nothing, and eyed the instruments with just a little too much interest.

 

“Do you play anything?” Patrick asked, curiosity winning over his doubts.

Pete opened his mouth, and for a fraction of a second, he hesitated. “No.”

Patrick could sense that this wasn’t the whole answer, that there was something Pete was holding back. For a brief second, the person beneath Pete the hooker shined through. The one that wanted to answer Patrick’s question in an honest manner, the one that opened his mouth to speak the truth, for once. That person spread his fingers, ready to touch the musical equipment in front of him, but then disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared, and all too soon, only the hooker was left. Pete’s guard was back up, just like Patrick tried to hold onto his own.

 

Part of Patrick wanted to inquire further, wanted to drag out the real Pete _(if that was even his real name_ ; Patrick had no idea how to address the actual person living hidden inside the hooker’s skin). But at the same time, he knew his efforts would be in vain. He only had access to the pretty, painted surface, to the illusion; even if he asked again, Pete wouldn’t give him any other answer.

 

And Patrick shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t care about who Pete was outside of the time Patrick paid for, it shouldn’t matter to him, it was none of his business. Pete clearly had no intention of sharing that part with him. Hadn’t Pete told him how to play this game? _I should just believe the lies_ –

 

“You’re thinking too much.”

 Pete’s amused voice interrupted Patrick’s train of thoughts. When he looked up, Pete stood right in front of him.

 “Let’s make you forget these unhappy thoughts, hm?”

 

Oh, it would be so easy to abandon reality. All Patrick had to do was extend his hands. He could just touch that tan skin, clench his fingers into soft flesh, dig his nails into what was _mine and mine alone_.

He allowed the hooker to take the empty tumbler away from him, and suddenly he was unburdened, free to touch those sharp hip bones and that striking face.

“Yeah,” Patrick answered breathlessly, “let’s forget.”

He withdrew his hands, and brought his mouth closer to the hooker’s ear. “Grab your stuff, and follow me to the bedroom.”

 

And oh, how easy it was to _forget_ when a pretty Pete parted his legs for him, offered him his body, let out a subtle moan and showed a convincing display of arousal. It was just so easy to believe _this_ and forget the rest.

 

Three fingers of whiskey inside of Patrick, and three fingers of Patrick inside of Pete.

 

“Ah, Patrick, yes!” Pete’s voice, silky smooth, all too familiar. Patrick’s fingers curled upwards, causing the hooker to let out another loud moan. His other hand traced the dark line of hair from Pete’s navel down to his thick cock. It was only now Patrick noticed some small discolorations on Pete’s hips, faint stains of thoughts similar to his own. But he decided to ignore them, _it's none of my business, anyway_ -

He wrapped his hands loosely around the base of Pete’s cock, giving slow strokes at first, gradually increasing speed as he felt it growing in his hand. And when Pete clutched his hands into the sheets and inhaled sharply, lost part of his act to an involuntary arousal, Patrick felt nothing but perverse pleasure.

“Want more?” Patrick’s own voice sounded so weird to him, like a stranger took possession of his body (just like he was about to take possession over the stranger’s body beneath him).

 

“Always want more of you, Patrick,” Pete gasped.

 

Patrick withdrew his hands, and (hesitantly, but nonetheless – he couldn’t deny its necessity) grabbed one of the condoms the hooker had carefully placed on the nightstand

Pete sat up, reaching for the condom wrapper in his client’s hand. “Would you let me?” Pete purred.

“Go ahead. You’re the expert,” Patrick answered, trying to sound cool, and then handed it over.

Pete’s movements were smooth and sensual as he unrolled the rubber onto Patrick’s aching hard-on, and he couldn’t help the whimper that escaped his throat at the gentle touch.  Patrick adjusted his position, and after inhaling deeply, he slid himself in. Slowly, the familiar warmth of the stranger’s body greeted him, embraced his cock, and sent a shiver down his spine.

 

“Damn, you feel so fucking good, Patrick,” Pete moaned; by now, Patrick suspected, the hooker had noticed his client’s hunger for words, how he longed for bittersweet nothings and more, more, _more_. Even if it was an act, Patrick would buy into it.

 

“Don’t stop, Pete. Tell me more,” he whispered.

 

“Oh, I’m a dirty boy, Patrick,” Pete whined. “So, so dirty, and I’m so, so sorry! Will you punish me?” he asked in a playful manner, but Patrick shook his head.

“No,” Patrick grunted, and let out a sharp laugh, “you’re lucky that I like dirty boys like you…”

 

Realization lit Pete’s eyes,, and he took a different approach. “Mmm, so you like a dirty boy like me, Patrick?”

 

“Fuck, Pete, _yes_ ,” Patrick involuntarily confessed, before he had time to overthink his words.

 

“Oh, I know you like it. That’s why you chose me, right?” A wide grin spread over the hooker’s face. “Could’ve chosen one of the other whores, one of the _nice_ , docile little pets if you wanted, but you came back to _me_.”

 

Patrick felt Pete tighten around him as he laughed, and another involuntary little moan fell from Patrick’s mouth at the feel of it. But that sound... it didn’t sound like Pete’s usual obnoxious laugh; it had a hint of maliciousness, of superiority. _He knew I’d come back right from the beginning, knew I was weak, couldn’t control myself, can’t resist_ –  

 

“Stop… stop talking,” Patrick hissed, unwilling to let his doubts ruin this moment. He put his hands on Pete’s lower legs. “Over my shoulders,” he commanded, and Pete obeyed, adjusting his posture to Patrick’s will.

 

Now, there was even less distance between them, bodies drenched in their sweat, grinding against each other. Patrick could feel the hooker’s cock brushing against his stomach; hard, burning hot, and leaking. Aroused and filled to bursting because of _his_ touches, because of _Patrick_. Not because of anyone else, not because of just any other John, no. _He’d_ turned Pete on, driven him to the edge. He had some power, some effect over this pretty body. He held onto that thought instead of the ones that had marched through his head a moment before.

 

“Touch yourself,” Patrick demanded fervently, hunger and lust possessing him.

 

The angle was awkward and there wasn’t much room, but Pete still managed to work his hand between them and start stroking himself. He was panting, each breath carrying a desperate little whine. He was close, and Patrick could feel it.

 

“Come for me, Pete,” Patrick spat out, barely in control over his voice or words anymore.

 

“Whatever you want, Patrick,” Pete answered slightly trembling, his voice cracking when his client’s hips thrusted against his own. His hand increased speed, and his mouth parted to once more let out all the beautiful, salacious, captivating sounds that Patrick was so eager to hear from him. “I’ll do whatever you want me to, God… so good, ah…”

 

Patrick was glad he had already gotten off once before, otherwise he suspected he wouldn’t have lasted for long. Everything was too much, too close, to intimate, hot and wet and messy. Pete’s sweat was on Patrick’s skin, Pete’s breath was right next to his ears, and his words wormed their way directly into Patrick’s delirious, delusional mind.

 

Pete’s knuckles brushed against Patrick’s stomach, and Patrick could feel him tighten around his cock as Pete came, one last whimper escaping his mouth.

 

Triumph crept up somewhere in the back of Patrick’s mind, a nasty, nagging feeling of having _won_ (what he’d won, exactly, Patrick couldn’t be sure, or maybe he didn’t want to think about it).

 

But his conquest was right here in front of him. It was exactly this mess, this filthy imperfection, that Patrick had secretly longed for. Pete was completely undone underneath him, looking so _ruined_ , taut stomach covered in cum, cheeks flushed with the orgasm Patrick had _made_ him have. Patrick had wanted all of this, had the power to make it happen: the slick sound of his lubed up cock sliding in and out, the obscene sounds of flesh slamming against flesh, only drowned out by the occasional moan from Pete and the sound of his own heart beating fast, _faster, way too fast_.  

There was no need to hold back anymore. He grabbed Pete’s thighs with bruising force and picked up speed. He wanted to pummel that smug expression off the hooker’s face, wanted to use what strength he had left to show Pete that _he_ was in control, _he_ had the power, and _he_ was the one using Pete how _he_ liked. The idea filled his face with blood and his belly with electric waves of sensation. He was close, he knew it, and he was going to get what he wanted out of this filthy whore, this foreign presence in his formerly neat and tidy life, and then leave him on the corner where he’d found him and never look back.

But then Pete clenched his body around him just at the right moment, and ripped a blinding orgasm out of him. Patrick’s eyes squeezed shut and a desperate wail spilled from his throat as everything below his chest seemed to go up in flames.

 

Still panting heavily, he pulled out, causing an uncomfortable, wet sound, together with a last shudder and sharp exhale from the stranger underneath him. The hooker withdrew his legs from his client’s body, and sat up. He wiped his hand over his eyes and forehead, causing his makeup to smear down his face and leave black stains on his trembling fingers.

Patrick felt gross and exhausted, and all he wanted was to lay down, relax, feel the warmth and the comfort of another person’s body (even if it was a borrowed one, a _bought_ one) next to him. But instead, he bit his lip (afraid that his mouth would betray him by begging Pete not to go, to _stay with me, please_ ), and forced himself to stand up.

 _It’s probably just stupid post-orgasm sappiness_ , Patrick thought angrily, shook his head, and watched the hooker disappear into the kitchen to get rid of the used condom. He hadn’t even noticed that Pete had removed it for him.

 

Without putting much thought into it, he put on the nearest t-shirt and underwear within his reach. His fingers felt sticky and slimy with the residue of lube, sweat, and other things Patrick didn’t want to identify.

 

 _Like… Guilt, maybe?_ his mind taunted, and Patrick clenched his hands into fists. _No. I haven’t done anything wrong. Pete is a hooker, and I’m just a customer._

 

Once Pete had moved on from the kitchen, Patrick went to the sink there to wash his hands while the hooker retrieved his clothes from the bathroom and got dressed again.

 

“You know, Patrick,” Pete said when he came out of the bathroom, “if you’re… satisfied with my services, it’s customary to leave a tip. Don’t you remember?” He stuck out his lower lip and batted his eyes. “You wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings, would you? I worked really hard for you tonight! Don’t disappoint me, cutie.”

The large puppy eyes and the faked sadness in the hooker’s voice, the stupid pet name – Patrick _knew_ this was nothing but a well-rehearsed act, lines that had been recited for God knows how many people. But still, he felt his pride being challenged.

And knowing he could easily afford it, knowing the hooker was desperate for money, money he was throwing away with barely a second thought, _that_ gave him a nasty, spiteful, but still exhilarating sense of control, of _power_.

 

So, Patrick reached for his wallet, and pressed more bills into the hooker’s opened hand.

 

“Thanks!” Pete cooed, and made his way to the door. He hesitated for a moment, and turned back to his client.

“See you, _Patrick_.” Pete winked, and blew him a kiss.

 _He’s still making fun of me_ , Patrick thought angrily; he crossed his arms in front of his chest and remained silent. He wouldn’t dignify the hooker’s provocation with a verbal response, not that one was needed. He knew just as well as Pete did that he would be back at that street corner  again soon, and he would see more of Pete, without a doubt, _more and more_ , _again and again and –_

Pete took one last look at him, and laughed his ugly laugh when he saw the irritated expression on his client’s face. “Try not to think too much, okay?” A flash of teeth from his mouth, and a flash of danger from his eyes.

 

He was out of the door before Patrick could give a reply.

The memory of the triumphant feeling of having won came back to Patrick’s mind, but it was soon replaced with the realization that _he_ hadn’t really won. Maybe, neither of them had.

 

 

 

 

 

After a few more visits from Patrick, some of the other boys came over to ask Pete for his opinion on the new John. So far Patrick had only ever taken Pete, but he may take a liking to one of the others one day. If so, it was always good to know if he should be handled with care, or even avoided altogether.

Pete shrugged his shoulders as an answer. “He’s okay. Pays without making a fuss, doesn’t question the condoms, doesn’t demand anything special. As far as I can judge he’s pretty harmless. Never tried to scam or hurt me.”

The others nodded in response, and lost interest.

 

Pete honestly preferred the guys who just wanted a quick hand- or blowjob in their car or the dark alleyway nearby. Much less trouble for the money. Those guys usually didn’t talk much, and didn’t require any special attention. It was over quickly, and there was more time for more customers. Johns like Patrick paid better, but also cost a lot more time and energy.

Then again, Patrick thankfully never bothered with talking, really. Pete appreciated that – he preferred it over clients who expected him to talk, or, God forbid, _listen_ to them, like he was their fucking therapist on top of their whore. Sure, they could buy his body, but no amount of money was ever going to buy his interest or care.

 

Or the ones who asked a million questions, the ones who wanted to be _his_ therapist. Pete had lost count of how many clients had stroked his hand while they looked at him with concerned eyes and talked to him with false sweetness. _An attractive, energetic young man like you could do so much better. Why don’t you get help? Don’t you have any family or friends? Don’t you want to get a real job? A better life?_

And even worse were the goddamned roadside messiahs, offering lies and caveats hidden under sweet promises: _I could help you, I can rescue you, I can give you a better life, you just need to come with me, all you need to do is -_

Whatever it was, Pete certainly wasn’t interested.

 

Patrick never talked, never asked questions about Pete’s life, never tried to save him or change him. That was better, _safer_. For all involved.

 

Pete thought of Patrick as just another guy with the boring everyday issues of everyday middle class children, trying to cope with whatever complexes he had by hiring at a hooker. He was lonely, of course, but all of Pete’s clients were lonely. Why else would they come to him?

 

There was only one toothbrush in Patrick’s bathroom, and only enough toiletries for one guy. Pete never saw any other clothes than Patrick’s: no forgotten sweater, bra, shirts, _anything_ left behind as trace of another human being that had undressed, lived, eaten, or taken up space in his apartment. His car was always neat, clean, with no hint of anyone else.

Even Patrick _himself_ was always clean. That definitely wasn’t the standard for most of Pete’s customers. Hell, there were more than enough perverts on Pete’s client list who made sure to be extra filthy when they hired a hooker, and relished in the disgust and humiliation it caused. The world was a pretty sick place, when you got right down to it, and it made Pete really glad almost nothing entered him without factory-fresh latex coating it.

Patrick denied most body contact unless it happened on his terms, and was initiated by him. He pretty much merely tolerated it when Pete touched anything beside his dick. He didn’t even accept kisses.

He was probably disgusted by Pete, repelled by the fact that he was a street hooker, and that other men frequently fucked him for money. Thought Pete was dirty, and would stain him as well if he touched Patrick too much.

 

Well, it made Pete’s job a little easier. One less thing to care about.

 

Nothing in Patrick’s life – as far as he had allowed Pete to see – indicated that other people left much of a trace in it. If that was intentional or not, only Patrick knew, and Pete didn’t bother to ask. Judging from the way Patrick rejected most kind of body contact and the harsh defensiveness in all his interactions, it wouldn’t be a surprise if it was. Not that Pete cared; every person desperate enough to pick off hookers from the streets had their own story and their own reasons to act the way they do, and Pete most certainly wasn’t interested in finding out more. His clients meant no more to him than the cash they handed over. He was hired for sex, not for mushy sharing, or love, or whatever, and he very much preferred to keep it that way.

 

Though Pete would have classified Patrick as kind of pathetic, if he were in a place to judge, or even really care.

 

Someone approached Pete, and leaned next to him against the wall. A quick look assured Pete it was the well-known sight of the boy who’d been sticking to his side for the past few months. Brown hair, large eyes, always moving, always restless. His foot was tapping an irregular rhythm, and his hand was fiddling out a pack of cigarettes. He wordlessly offered one to Pete, who silently cursed the boy for knowing exactly how to get his attention.

“Thanks, Brendon,” he murmured, and the boy gave him a huge, sincere smile, pulled out a lighter, and lit his cigarette. He passed the lighter over, but when Pete tried to grab it, the boy firmly clutched it in his hands for a little longer.

Brendon gave a questioning, suspicious look. “That blond guy with the hat. Is he your new regular now?"

Pete shrugged, finally managing to snag the lighter out of the boy’s grip. “Not yet. But he’s been here a few times now, and judging from my experience, he probably won’t stop coming anytime soon.”

If Patrick had never come back after the first time, maybe he would have had the chance to break free. But after the second, third, fourth time, it got easy. Pete knew that once the inhibition was switched off, once the shame and anxiety faded, it got replaced with more agreeable memories of pleasure, sweat, release, and _power_. After that, people tended to come back again. And again. And with each time it became harder to stop.

 

“I don’t like that he takes you to his apartment,” Brendon confessed, nervously dragging his cigarette.

Pete laughed. “Don’t worry, Brendon. I can take care of myself. And he’s harmless, anyway.” Pete lit his own cigarette, and soon he was greedily inhaling the smoke.

“Still, I don’t like it. Hotels would be safer,” Brendon said stubbornly.

Pete shook his head. “They’re really not, idiot. There’s still enough things that can go wrong in hotel, unforeseeable accidents, unpredictable Johns… And don’t think that the people working there give a single fuck about us. If anything were to happen, management would only try to sweep it under the rug so that they don’t get in trouble with the law, or their other customers.”

 

Brendon contemplated that thought for a few moments. “No safe place to go then,” he concluded bitterly.

 

Pete scoffed. “You’re right, kiddo. You’re not the brightest, huh? Took you long enough to figure it out. Just be glad you didn’t learn it the hard way yet. That was just stupid luck. There is no safe place to go.” He took another drag from his cigarette and blew the gray fume into the air. Brendon annoyed him. He was like a puppy the way he followed Pete around, trying to get his attention, stubbornly demanding a place in his life.

 

Pete didn’t care. Didn’t _want_ to care. He never asked to take responsibility of yet another soon to be lost boy. He wasn’t sure why Brendon was clinging to _him_ of all people exactly. Did he just want to learn a few tricks from a mentor (a role Pete certainly hadn’t asked for)? Did he seriously expect Pete to open up and be a friend to some clueless, clueless idiot who just hadn’t yet learned that Pete ruined everything he came in contact with? He’d already wrecked himself, his friends, family, everyone. Brendon didn’t know that Pete only caused misery, that everything Pete touched would _wither away, rot, and die, to be ruined forever_.

Pete didn’t deserve anything good, he had lost his rights to happiness. Pete was good for nothing but destruction, _and it’s enough that I am already actively destroying myself._

 

He wanted Brendon to go, go away, flee. Where to, Pete wasn’t sure, just somewhere else, _away from me_.

 

“No place to go at all,” Pete added in a low voice, followed by a sharp, joyless laugh.

 

Brendon turned away from Pete, lips pressed into a thin line. Absentmindedly, his hands clutched the shadows of his long-sold guitar, only to find nothing but thin air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmm loook who's bad at updating, oops. I promise I'll try my best to get the next chapter updated sooner. 
> 
> Next chapter, another new character will enter the plot (guess who it will be! Though it might be obvious), and if you think we're done with the angst or smut, then oh boy, are you wrong, because we are not. Oh, we are not. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, it really means a lot to me!  
> Anyway, I am open to criticims and feedback, please let me know what you think!~


	3. Honey, You Know Where To Find Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has a new routine, a one-night stand, and some doubts he desperately tries his best to ignore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We briefly interrupt the Peterick porn for some Stumporta at the beginning of this chapter, but don't worry, there's still plenty of Peterick later this chapter. 
> 
> Warnings for semi-drunken sex, demeaning language, and tons of unhealthy thoughts. 
> 
> Thanks as always to @SelketsChild for being such an amazing and patient beta reader!~  
> Chapter title from a Morrissey song.

Patrick found a new routine.

 

Really, it was more like a new bad habit.

 

The timing of his visits didn’t follow a regular pattern. Sometimes it was because he got off work early, or maybe he’d had a bad day, or just bought a new bottle of whiskey and its color reminded him of a certain pair of eyes.  And soon enough, he drove to the well-known street, parked at the usual spot, and took home the familiar stranger. He always made sure to be early, always made sure to have enough cash, and always knew exactly what, or rather, _whom_ he wanted.

 

And if he was being honest, he was always looking forward to it.

 

Oh, Patrick knew it was wrong, that he should stop, and he promised himself that _this_ would be the last time each time Pete got into his car, swore he would never do this again each time Pete entered his apartment, vowed to let Pete go for good and never let him back into his life each time the hooker left afterwards.

 All he wanted was to go back to his boring old life, back to a world of normal sex, with _normal people_ , away from the prostitute that brought out a side in him that Patrick hated. He wanted to forget that wicked smile, wanted to stop craving Pete’s sweet little lies, wanted to escape the tight grip the hooker had on him despite Patrick’s desperate denial of too much body contact or even kisses.

 

Patrick knew he could just stop anytime he wanted. But he also knew that he never wanted to.

 _No, no,_ **_no_**. He had to stop _wanting_ Pete.  

Patrick needed a way out, something to take his mind off Pete and pull himself out of the gutter.

 

Gabe Saporta seemed like a viable lifeline.

 

They hadn’t talked in a while, so it was pure coincidence when they ran into each other at a party organized by the label. Once production on Gabe’s album had finished, there’d been no reason for them to cross paths otherwise.

Never having been a fan of parties, Patrick didn’t expect anything great from the evening. He was only there to put on a good face for his employer, really. He hated the politics and all the schmoozing, but this was also how he met musicians to work with, and thus how he stayed in the black.

 _It’s how you afford sexy hookers, too._ Patrick tried to ignore that thought and squeeze some small amount of enjoyment out of the evening.

The music was way too loud. Patrick only vaguely recognized the song playing as being by some terrible band on his label. To make matters worse, the sound system was awful. He couldn’t hold back a frustrated sigh at the thought that a _record label_ would have such lousy acoustics when trying to promote their own music.

Thankfully, though, this spared him the torture of small talk. Instead, Patrick decided to stick to the bar and the many, many drinks it had to offer. It was a bit quieter there, less crowded, and soon, through the lenses of alcohol, the world became pleasantly warm and fuzzy again, anxieties forgotten for now.

 

A hand landed on his shoulder, making Patrick flinch and spill some of his drink. Ready to yell at whoever was responsible for this, he turned around, only to find himself confronted with the chest and, as Patrick looked up, the face, of Gabe Saporta.

“Look who we have here,” Gabe half-shouted over the music in the background, and greeted him by flashing a brilliant grin. “Hey, Patrick. Long time no see.”

“Gabe,” Patrick nodded, only slightly surprised. If there was a party, Gabe was sure to be there, with his loud voice and even louder clothes. “Nice to see you again.”

 

Patrick wondered why he hadn’t noticed him sooner, but figured that Gabe had probably been mingling, while Patrick had been occupying the same chair at the bar for pretty much the whole evening. And Gabe, unlike him, was bright and shiny, brash and outspoken. He _owned_ whatever room he was in, had a way to draw people’s eyes and attention to him. _Not unlike… No._

 _Stop thinking about Pete_ , he chided himself. What the hell did some random _hooker_ have in common with someone like Gabe?

“Having fun?” Gabe eyed the half-empty drink in Patrick’s hand.

“Not really. I’m having alcohol instead,” Patrick said dryly, causing his newfound companion to chuckle.

“Sounds like a good substitute.” Gabe waved his hands to get the bartender’s attention, and motioned towards Patrick’s drink, then held up two fingers. Not long after, two glasses were put in front of them, and soon enough, Patrick found himself conversing with Gabe, his nervousness forgotten thanks to Gabe’s bright smile and the encouraging liquor in his glass.

 

It had been a while since someone had shown such active interest in Patrick, went out of their way to engage in conversation, actually listened to him outside of what he had to say at the studio.

Gabe knew Patrick, had seen him at his worst during work, yet he still was interested in him. That was a good start.

But outside of work, Patrick thought of himself as just an average guy. He had plenty of music to offer, but he had already given Gabe that part of himself. And felt like there was not much else of interest about him– no fantastic looks, no great conversational skills, only awkward shyness replacing his determined attitude in the studio.

 _A boring, average looking guy with too much control issues and too little patience. Someone who, unlike Gabe, has to_ **_buy_ ** _sex_.

“It’s nice I finally got to talk to you alone. I’ve wanted to have some private time with you for a while now!” Gabe said after a while, and laughed lightheartedly, looking at Patrick with an expression he couldn’t quite place. 

 

“Why me?” Patrick asked, and slightly raised his eyebrows. Maybe this was all a joke. Someone like Gabe could have anyone. Good-looking, attractive, flirtatious _Gabe_ didn’t need to settle for _Patrick_ , who wasn’t gregarious, _wasn’t pretty, wasn’t_ –

Gabe laughed again, and shook his head. “ _Why you_? What kind of question is that! You’re funny, Stump,” he said, amused, and Patrick wasn’t sure if he was mocking him or just missed the implications behind his question.

 But Gabe’s smile was honest, and his hand felt nice on Patrick’s shoulder. He felt himself loosen up, and even lean into the touch.

 “You just seem like an interesting guy, Patrick. A challenge. You’re smart, talented, and the only cute guy in the studio who didn’t return my advances. I thought I made it pretty clear that I wanted you,” Gabe admitted, and shrugged his shoulders. Patrick furrowed his brow, reminded of something, or someone, but couldn’t (or wouldn’t) recall whose movements mirrored Gabe’s in his mind.

 “I just didn’t want anything to get awkward while we were working together,” Patrick answered, trying not to get too distracted by Gabe’s hand that was now on his knee. Part of him wanted to brush it off, but the bigger part of him didn’t want to look like an uptight prude in front of the extroverted, charming man in front of him.

 

This was his chance. _The chance of having perfectly normal sex, with a perfectly normal person that isn’t a prostitute; isn’t_ **_Pete_**.

 

Patrick wasn’t sure how he had managed to convince him that he was cute or interesting, but right now, with Gabe’s hand on his knee, and with Gabe’s compliments, bright smile, and attention focused on _him_ , he wasn’t going to question it.

 _I guess this is how all my relationships work now_ , he thought fleetingly, the image of a pretty hooker flashing before his inner eye, _by not questioning anything_.

But the thoughts were soon lost among the rest of his drink, and any doubts were canceled out by Gabe’s hand running up his thigh.

Gabe grinned. “So you _did_ notice I was flirting with you, eh?” He brought his mouth closer to Patrick’s ear. “You were such a bitch to work with,” he whispered, “I want to see how much of that attitude you keep in the bedroom.”

 

 

The cab ride was riddled with sexual tension and, in Patrick’s slightly intoxicated mind, took _way too long_. Gabe had his hand on Patrick’s thigh the whole drive, and Patrick was still torn between wanting to brush it off, and the growing want to have those hands all over his body.

“We’re going to my place, okay?” Gabe sent him a questioning look, but Patrick just nodded. At this point, it was too late to back out, and with the remaining alcohol buzzing through his system and Gabe right next to him, he didn’t feel like objecting anyway.

 

They stumbled into Gabe’s apartment, managing to find the way to the bedroom while shedding their first layers of clothes, which were carelessly thrown on the floor. “Wanna kiss you,” Gabe groaned, and Patrick’s first instinct was to deny, until he remembered that this wasn’t his usual company – this wasn’t a hooker, wasn’t _Pete_. Gabe wanted to give him a real kiss (on his own free will), not a _product_.

The difference in height made for an awkward, clumsy experience. Even though Patrick got on his toes, Gabe still had to bend down. Coordinating a proper kiss took a few attempts, the alcohol not helping, and it seemed ridiculous to Patrick at first.

But when they finally connected, it felt so good. Each kiss was like a confirmation that Gabe was here, he was real, and he _is really interested in me, me, me and no one else_. Triumph flooded Patrick’s brain, and lead him to kiss back with more enthusiasm, and he leaned a little closer, put his hands on the other man’s hips.

 _Gabe could have gone home with anyone he wanted, all the pretty little starlets and models, but he chose me, and me alone_.

It dawned on Patrick how long it has been since he had kissed, _really_ _kissed_ someone on the mouth, tongues involved, hot and messy. That was the part of him he didn’t want to surrender to the hooker, the part he wanted to keep for himself, away from the world of bought intimacy. He wasn’t sure why exactly his brain had decided to draw the line at kissing, but he still desperately clung to it.

 

But he wouldn’t have to follow such rules with Gabe.

 

Patrick tasted the alcohol they’d both imbibed, he felt the warmth of someone else’s tongue, there was spit and teeth and the longing for _more_. He still felt pleasantly intoxicated – not _drunk_ , really, just tipsy enough to relax, and to push his insecurities aside into the well-known corner of denial.

 

Gabe’s hands fiddled impatiently with the hem of Patrick’s shirt, eager to pull it off.

“Can do that myself,” Patrick objected, hands already on his shirt.

Gabe let out another laugh, and shook his head. “Damn, Stump. First you didn’t trust me with music, and now you don’t even trust me with your clothes?” Patrick glared at him, but Gabe only grinned, and took Patrick undressing as an invitation to undress himself as well.

 

Standing in front of a naked Gabe partially dragged out all those insecurities Patrick had been trying so so hard to drown out. Gabe was stunning, _breathtakingly beautiful_ , in all the ways that Patrick wasn’t. Tall and athletic, golden skin, dark eyes that were carefully observing him.

“Patrick in all his glory,” Gabe hummed, a bright grin lighting up his face. “I’ve been dying to see the pretty boy hiding underneath your clothes – been mentally undressing you for weeks…”

“I’m in my twenties, and I’ve stopped being a _boy_ a while ago, thanks.” Patrick crossed his arms in front of his chest, and gave Gabe a scolding look. “Also, the mentally undressing part sounds kind of creepy.”

“Couldn’t help myself,” Gabe hummed with no hint of guilt in his voice, “you’re just too cute.”

 

It felt like a lie, coming from someone like Gabe. It wasn’t what Patrick wanted to hear, _even Pete would know better than to tell me such bullshit._ He shook his head. “’m really not.”

“Is there _anything_ I say or do you won’t object to?” Gabe asked, and raised an eyebrow.

“Won’t object to _this_ ,” Patrick said, and leaned in for another kiss, his hands guiding Gabe’s to his cock. Talking wasn’t his strength in these situations, and he really felt like he had to put a stop to it before he could scare Gabe off completely.

Gabe hummed in approval, his hand around Patrick, giving tender, teasing strokes. “Since my smooth talking doesn’t impress you, how about I use my mouth for other things?”

 

Patrick hesitated, the image of a dozen anonymous faces flashing before his eyes – this mouth had done _things_ to who knew how many people. _Not that I’m any better_ , he thought begrudgingly, _I’m some filthy John getting my dick sucked by a prostitute on a regular basis._

“Sure,” he finally managed to bring out, “Just, uh, could you get the condoms –?“ He bit his lip when he realized to whom he usually said this sentence, but Gabe was already too preoccupied with going through his drawer.

 

Lying down, the height difference was easier to ignore, and it felt less awkward. Gabe had his Patrick’s dick in his hand again, rolling the rubber over it just like Patrick had requested, and Patrick briefly wondered if Gabe would be disgusted if he knew who had touched him before, would reconsider this if he knew that Patrick was getting blowjobs from a street hooker _–_   

 

But thoughts were soon replaced by the feeling of Gabe’s mouth, hot and slick and causing Patrick to let out a small moan.

 

Pete didn’t matter right now. Unlike _Pete_ , Gabe was right here, _and unlike Pete, I don’t have to pay him for sex_.

 

What did matter was Gabe’s tongue running down his shaft, and his hand that squeezed his thigh, as he motioned Patrick to part his legs. “Gonna add some fingers, okay?”

“First, use some fucking lube,” Patrick hissed. He propped himself up on his elbows to send Gabe an angry look. Gabe just grinned back at him, and Patrick could hear the sound of the lube bottle being opened. Shortly after, he felt Gabe’s slick finger pressed against his hole, then pressed inside of him, and _damn_ , he had almost forgotten how good that felt. Patrick fell back into the pillows, and couldn’t help but let out an appreciative moan when Gabe’s mouth was back on his cock.

 

It was a nice, being the bottom again, _something I could never see myself doing with Pete_ –

 

His attention was brought back to Gabe when he added a third finger, and they found just the right spot inside of Patrick, leaving him squirming and letting out a whimper.

“Fuck, Patrick, can I -?” Gabe had already grabbed one of the condoms, waving it in his hand instead of finishing the question.

Patrick merely nodded, afraid he’d let out nothing but a pathetic chant of _yespleasepleaseplease_ if he dared to open his mouth.

Gabe rolled the rubber over his dick. Patrick, still not trusting his voice, sent him a look and gestured towards the lube, hoping Gabe would understand. Apparently he did, and connecting the dots between the gesture and Patrick’s earlier words, Gabe poured more of the slick liquid over his hand, eagerly spreading it over himself with a gasp of pleasure.

 

It had been a while since Patrick had been fucked, and Gabe being so tall with an anything but small dick didn’t help. The angle was weird, Gabe’s limbs too long and getting in the way, and Patrick felt too small, too tense, too nervous.

With Pete, it always seemed so easy. _Of course, he’s a hooker, has plenty of experience, that’s what he does for a living_ –

Patrick let out an involuntary hiss. _Goddamnit, what the hell. This is not the time to be thinking about someone else_.

 

“You okay?” Gabe asked, eyeing Patrick with concern.

“I’m fine,” Patrick answered, slightly annoyed with himself and annoyed with the unexpected, unnecessary difficulty, “just, find a different angle. And maybe move a little, feels weird otherwise.”

Finding the right position took time. Patrick tried to adjust himself, and after several moments of muttered curses, and after the initial blunt, dull sensation of pain ebbed away, everything fell into place.

 

And _damn_ , Gabe felt good, way too good, and with slight surprise and horror, Patrick realized he wasn’t going to last long. Especially when Gabe increased his speed, and had somehow managed find just the right pace and angle, his dick brushing against Patrick’s prostate, causing him to arch his back and gasp for air. _Fuck_ , Patrick had never been good at lasting long, and now that the almost unfamiliar feeling of being fucked dragged out all-too familiar feelings of satisfaction, now that someone else set the pace, and with all the additional alcohol only highlighting all his weaknesses, he felt like he was going to give in and just come any second now.

“Can I get the condom off you?” Gabe inquired, hands already on the object in question. “Want to fucking touch you.”

“Whatever,” was all Patrick could manage to bring out. He was past the point of caring, too close to coming, too caught up in keeping up with Gabe’s rhythm and desperately trying not to blow his load after two minutes like some desperate, horny teen.

Gabe removed the condom, carelessly throwing the now useless object aside, wrapped his hands around Patrick’s exposed cock, and everything in Patrick tensed up.

 

Well, apparently, despite his best efforts, he wasn’t going to last _at all_.

 

He couldn’t even warn Gabe, because all his vocabulary had been reduced to pointless whines and moans, and Patrick slammed his hands over his mouth to prevent more of them escaping as he came seconds later, hard and intense, spilling all over Gabe’s hand and himself.

 

Gabe shot him a triumphant grin, and Patrick averted his eyes.

 

He felt overwhelmed and overstimulated, and which each thrust became more tempted to push Gabe away. But this wasn’t a hooker that he was buying a product from, this was _Gabe_ , someone who hadn’t surrendered his control to Patrick for a few dollar bills. _Someone who expects things from me, someone who judges._

Failure wasn’t an option.

Patrick gritted his teeth, unwilling to give in and say something or shove Gabe away from him ( _not that I would have any chance at that_ , he thought fleetingly, _he’s what, twice my size and triple my strength?),_ but the whole situation felt _off_ , and made him involuntarily tense up and dig his nails into Gabe’s arms with just a little too much force.

Gabe must have noticed, because he stopped. “You okay? Did I do something wrong…?”

 “No,” Patrick said weakly. “I’m sorry, it’s just… Too much stimulation.” He sighed. This was not going according to his plan. Here he was underneath a handsome man, looking like a sweaty mess, the come from his too early orgasm splayed over his chest, and apparently not even able to properly let Gabe finish inside him. This wasn’t how he had imagined it at all. This wasn’t the position he was usually in, and he couldn’t say he was enjoying it all that much.

“You could just, I don’t know, go on anyway?” Patrick suggested, dangerously close to begging, _anything_ to just get this over with; but Gabe just shot him a weird look, pulling out already. He sat up, panting slightly and still giving Patrick a weird look. Almost pitying. Dread washed over Patrick – he didn’t need _pity_ from Gabe, didn’t want him to think he was a failure.

 

Patrick felt a hint of desperation. The last thing he felt like was having Gabe think that on top of everything else – _bossy, annoying, stubborn_ – he was also a bad lay.

 

And knowing how tight everything could be between bands and everyone else at the studio, there was the legit possibility that word about this would get out sooner or later. That was certainly a rumor Patrick didn’t need, and especially not when its origin would be _Gabe_ of all people.

 

“Off with that.” Patrick motioned to the used condom on Gabe. He pulled it off, and carelessly threw it aside towards wherever he had thrown the first one, and it took all of Patrick’s remaining strength not to scold him for that. It wasn’t _his_ bedroom, not _his_ rules to be followed, Gabe could do whatever he wanted here.

“Lie down. Will be easier for me that way,” Patrick instructed, while grabbing another condom. Without a second thought, he pressed it into Gabe’s hand – he was just used to someone else handling that part. “Get this on. I’m going to blow you.”

 

Gabe looked at him funnily, and his hesitation only fueled Patrick’s frustration.

 

“Are you sure?” Gabe asked, an irritating nervousness in his voice.

“What? Think I can’t give blowjobs?” Patrick asked, anger and impatience seeping into his voice. Having his ability to blow someone questioned wasn’t something he needed to hear right now.

“You just seemed a little tense –“

“Do you want to come or not?” Patrick interrupted, hoping that Gabe would get the subtle hint to _shut up_. The last thing he needed was any more doubts, or worse, _pity_. He could handle himself just fine, and Gabe questioning that made him furious.

 

Patrick moved his tongue around in his mouth, trying to get as much spit as possible. Usually, he would have taken his time, tease a bit, start out gently. Right now though, he wasn’t really going for finesse; but considering Gabe was already hard, had already been inside of him and was probably not too far from coming anyway, he figured that didn’t really matter.

He bent down, and slowly, took Gabe’s cock into his mouth. It had been a while since he had given a blowjob, _because usually, that’s Pete’s job_ –

 

“Oh fuck, Patrick, your mouth feels fucking amazing,” Gabe hissed, and Patrick couldn’t help but feel slightly relieved. Now _that_ sounded a lot better than consolation or doubts, and better than thoughts about some _random hooker_.

 

Gabe propped himself up on his elbows, his dark eyes fixated on Patrick. “Damn, you look so good with my dick in your mouth babe, fuck, please, don’t stop, oh, yeah, just like that…”

Being watched wasn’t something Patrick was used to, but whatever. He also wasn’t used to being called _babe_ , and certainly would have objected the stupid nickname but right now, with Gabe’s dick in his mouth and the liquor clouding his mind, he couldn’t bring himself to care about that. Especially when he heard Gabe moan, heard words like “please” and “yes”, felt a familiar feeling of triumph rising in his chest. Gabe Saporta, a man who was confident and hot and could have anyone he wanted, _and here he is, begging for me_.

 

It was not the best blowjob he’d ever given. Once more, Patrick felt like a teenager again, impatient, rough and sloppy, with no real technique; too much spit everywhere, all over his face, running down his hands and Gabe’s thighs.

But Gabe’s grunts, occasional swearing and eventual orgasm confirmed that it got the job done anyway.

“Are we even now?” Patrick asked, before wiping his mouth with his hands. That didn’t help much, considering his hands were full of his drool too, but he was too lazy and too exhausted to care.

Gabe laughed, his voice sounding hoarse. “Oh, I’m fucking fine, thanks for asking.”

 

Patrick had to admit, post-orgasm Gabe was a nice sight. He looked relaxed, half-hooded eyes lingering on Patrick, his lazy smile looking different from the usual bright grin. He looked more vulnerable, his guard down and for now, not caught up the usual role of his party persona. It felt intimate, and it was a view that _Pete_ usually didn’t allow him for too long –

Irritated, Patrick shook his head, and lay down next to Gabe. Who the hell could care about _some street hooker_ when there was a beautiful man right next to him, a man who now snuggled closer, pressed a kiss to his neck, had had consensual sex without money involved with him just now.

He heard Gabe murmur something, he felt a blanket being dragged over him and the arm of someone else slung over his hips, uncomfortably close, sweaty and sticky and too hot.

But all that mattered now was sleep.

 

 

 

Patrick woke up with a slight headache, and someone else next to him. This was unusual.

 

Apparently, waking up next to another person was nothing that Gabe was unfamiliar with. He seemed completely unbothered by the situation. Still naked, hair disheveled and the last bit of sleep in his eyes, he casually turned to Patrick. But on Gabe it looked like all the messiness was on purpose, done by a professional stylist for a photo shooting. It still looked _hot_.

Patrick couldn’t help but feel frustrated. _It’s not fair that even a rough night’s sleep can’t harm his appearance._

 

“Morning,” Gabe greeted him. He let out a yawn, and ruffled through Patrick’s hair. “You finally awake?”

 

Letting out an indistinguishable grunt as an answer, Patrick tried to brush Gabe’s hand off; but he was too slow and too uncoordinated to succeed.

The unpleasant stench of sweat and alcohol lingered on Patrick’s body, and he didn’t even want to imagine how he looked – hair sticking out all over the place, face scrunched up from sleep, the generally undignified appearance of having just woken up from a semi-drunken night’s unconsciousness. Unlike Gabe, Patrick certainly didn’t look anywhere near his best right now, he was sure of that.

Patrick grimaced when noticed the residue of dried drool on his face. _Shit_. He felt a hot wave of embarrassment wave over him when he remembered why he had spit all over his face, the memories of failure looking even more pathetic to him in the cold, sober daylight.

He wasn’t used to waking up to someone. _Pete always leaves afterwards_.

 

“The hell are you doing here?” Patrick blurted out. He stared at Gabe, while trying to rub the drool off his face.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “You’re at _my_ place, silly. Remember yesterday, Patrick? C’mon, you weren’t _that_ drunk.”

“I wasn’t _drunk_ ,” Patrick retorted indignantly, “I just woke up, and felt a bit disoriented, okay?” He tried to gather his thoughts. “So, what am I doing here?”

 “What, think I’d send you off in the middle of the night?” Gabe yawned again. “Besides, you were just too comfortable.” He poked Patrick’s chest. “All warm and cuddly.” He trailed down towards Patrick’s belly. “All nice and soft.”

Patrick only huffed in disapproval, and brought his knees to his chest. He suddenly became very aware that he was still very much naked, in front of an also naked, but attractive man, in an apartment that wasn’t his, _and absolutely none of this is right_.

 

“You’re cute when you’re pissy,” Gabe grinned, and ruffled through Patrick’s hair again.

“Would you stop that?!” He scorned as he tried to slap the unwanted hand away once more, but Gabe only laughed and safely pulled his hand away from Patrick’s reach.

“And you’re really not a morning person,” he observed amused, and Patrick sighed, thinking about his undignified appearance and childish temper. He realized was behaving like a dick to Gabe. Sleep-deprived or not, that wasn’t an excuse. Gabe hadn’t done anything wrong, he was just his usual extrovert self and tried to lighten the awkward mood a little. It wasn’t mean-spirited or ill-intentioned.

 

He probably wasn’t what Gabe was used to waking up next.

 

“Sorry for acting like an asshole,” Patrick mumbled, glancing at Gabe. “It’s not you, I’m just....”

“It’s fine,” Gabe said, and denied another “sorry” that was already forming on Patrick’s lips with a wave of his hand. “I may or may not have a soft spot for that side of yours. But if you wanna make it up, you could give me a good morning kiss.”

“Gross,” Patrick murmured, “I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”

Gabe only laughed. “Neither have I.” And Patrick couldn’t help but think that Gabe had probably kissed much dirtier mouths, done worse things with his lips, and for the flash of a second another mouth appeared in his mind, other pretty lips who’d done dirty things, were soiled by Patrick –

_No. Not important. It doesn’t matter._

What mattered was that the attractive man sitting next to him was very much real, and very much asking to kiss him, dirty or not. So, Patrick leaned forward, and pressed a small kiss on his mouth.

 

“You can’t leave me with a tease like that!” Gabe exclaimed, but Patrick got out of bed.

“I’m going to take a shower. If – if that’s okay with you,” he added, remembering that this was not his home, and he was merely an intruder. Just the residue of last night, among dried sweat and spit and possibly regrets.

“Be my guest.” Gabe nodded into the general direction of the bathroom. Patrick grabbed his clothes, weirdly relieved to get out of the room.

 

He showered as fast as he could, and exited the bathroom dressed and ready to leave.

 Gabe, still only in underwear and holding a mug of coffee in his hand, sent him a questioning look.

“Not feeling that well. I’m going home,” Patrick announced, looking around for where he had lost his jacket last night.

Gabe shrugged, and Patrick winced at the mental image of a familiar stranger doing the exact same movement. “Fine.”

 

Patrick grabbed his jacket from the floor, and made his way to the door, followed by Gabe. He bent down, and snuck a last kiss. “I had fun last night. I like you, Patrick. And I’d like to see you again,” he said with a wink.

 “Sure,” Patrick replied half-heartedly, already halfway out of the door and not really convinced. It was such a clichéd thing to say, and a lie Gabe probably told all the hopeful fools who woke up next to him.

 

The door closed behind Patrick, leaving him in the cold morning air, faced with harsh daylight and sobriety.

 Gabe hadn’t asked him to stay.

 

 _I might be nothing more but yet another stranger to someone._ _Great._

 

Patrick ran his hand through his messy hair, and let out a sharp laugh. _But at least I didn’t have to pay him_.

  


 

He didn’t know where this thing with Gabe was going, if Gabe would keep his promise and let it be more than a somewhat awkward one-night stand, but so far, it didn’t seem to go anywhere to stop Patrick.

It had felt merely like an aberration, something that had taken place in a different world. A world of parties and casual hookups, where people met at bars and stayed the night. It hadn’t given him the same sense of satisfaction he felt with Pete, a one-night stand didn’t leave the same impact on him that a dreaded, unhealthy, yet oddly calming routine had, and unlike Gabe, Pete was always available when Patrick wanted him to be.

 

It simply hadn’t been able to replace _Pete_.

 

Pete, who was once more in Patrick’s apartment, currently in the shower, and _goddamn_. The situation called for some alcohol.

So much for his Patrick’s plan of getting over him.

 

Patrick glanced over to the whiskey bottle, but winced internally at the thought of last time he had tried to dull his nerves with liquor. The mere thought of its sharp taste just brought up memories that he didn’t want to think of right now. No, Gabe belonged to that other, brighter world, not the quiet, lonely one where Patrick took home a hooker ( _again, and neither for the first, nor the last time_ ), and exchanged sex for money.

As always, Pete exited the bathroom already naked. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed the unusual sight of a beer bottle in his client’s hands, but didn’t comment on it. And as always, he looked gorgeous – all of his inked skin exposed, a smug smile on his lips, darkly painted eyes looking at Patrick expectantly.

 

It had taken him a while to realize he had never seen Pete without makeup. Pete must be reapplying it after the shower. Why he bothered with that, Patrick wasn’t sure. But it suited his features well, so Patrick wasn’t complaining. Pete surely had his reasons, and Patrick knew that he, _a client_ , wouldn’t get to know them.

 Patrick’s body seemed to merely react on a Pavlovian instinct by now. Pete never needed to _do_ much; it was enough that he was _there_ , all pretty and pure temptation, his toothy grin in Patrick’s sight, his warmth under Patrick’s hands, mouth, cock, seeping under Patrick’s skin and making him feel pleasantly warm on the inside. It was enough to get Patrick excited, this and the promise of _just a little more_ that he knew the hooker would deliver on.

By now, they had routine. The hooker knew what his client liked, knew his preferences and his taste. Pete knew what Patrick wanted to hear (saccharine words to sugarcoat the truth), knew what Patrick liked to see (smiles and exposed skin hiding whatever lay underneath), knew what Patrick wanted ( _him_ , always him, _PetePetePete_ ).

It had become somewhat predictable, but that provided an ironic sense of safety to Patrick.  

 

He was a customer, and Pete was a product. As simple as that.

 

Pete’s lips always looked so pretty stretched around Patrick’s cock, Pete made for a marvelous sight when kneeling between Patrick’s legs, and his mouth and tongue easily delivered pleasure when they were occupied with sucking him off.

Patrick didn’t always have the patience or stamina like the first two times. Sometimes, the blowjob was just foreplay, and he’d (reluctantly) tell Pete to stop before he could come, always with the intention of wanting to finish inside of him, bodies as close to each other as the condoms and the wall of lies between them would allow.

Pete’s presence had become familiar, easy, and by now Patrick was so used to it, he didn’t feel bothered or nervous anymore. In the slightly awkward time between blowjob and fucking, Pete knew how to behave around Patrick, knew when to talk or be silent, knew how to either be subdued or get Patrick’s attention when needed. He usually accepted the non-alcoholic drink Patrick offered him, politely declined the offer of food or everything else, and just seemed a tad disappointed about not being able to have a smoke.

 

Pete grabbed the lube and another condom from his bag. More than once now, Patrick had caught a small glimpse inside of it as curiosity won over him; and always among worn out dollar bills (no doubt the payment from former Johns), he had seen small, innocent, unlabeled containers and more than once, he had heard the faint rattling sound of their content.

But that was yet another thing that was none of his business. It felt like something he wasn’t supposed to see. No, the only thing in that bag that mattered to him, the only thing the hooker would be willing to share, were the condoms and the lube. Why Pete carried pills around with him, Patrick didn’t want to know. He didn’t ask questions, because deep down, he knew he didn’t want to hear the answers. He neither wanted to know the truth, nor did he feel like listening to lies.

 

It was better to say nothing.

 

Pete underneath him, flashing a toothy grin and giving Patrick a challenging look, and oh, Patrick was always eager to accept. And today, he wanted to ask for something he hadn’t dared to ask for before.

 

“Want me?” Patrick inquired, greedy to hear Pete’s answer.

“Always want you, Patrick, you know that,” Pete chirped, and no matter how often Patrick had heard this lie, it still sent a shiver down his spine, and made his cock twitch.

“Work for it, then.” Patrick handed him the lube, and allowed himself to trace over the tattoo on his belly, over hip bones and down to Pete’s thighs, and motioned him to part them a little further.

 

It took the hooker only a few seconds to understand what he was asking for.

“Want to watch?”

Patrick nodded, embarrassment creeping up on him. Actively asking for anything specific still felt weird to him. There was a hint of shyness (any maybe a hint of conscience) left, even though he had lost track of how many times this pretty hooker had been in the exact same position _, even though I’m a paying customer who has every right to demand this, right?_

Thankfully, Pete had been quick to notice that his client needed a little help sometimes, and he wasn’t shy to be vocal.

“Want to watch me simply jerk off? Or do you want to watch me getting ready for your cock, fingering myself open?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick whispered, “want to watch you get ready.” He felt a blush creeping up on his face, much to his dismay. Saying it out loud, admitting this, somehow made him feel nervous.

He hated that this _hooker_ knew so much about him, awoke new, unwanted desires in him, made him want to do and say all these ridiculous, obscene things, always brought out side of Patrick that he hated, feared (and yet had silently accepted as part of himself at the same time). The dirty, unpleasant side that right now, wanted nothing more but to feast his eyes upon the sight of this pretty little hooker fingering himself open until he would be nothing more than a beautiful mess, his trembling voice crying out Patrick’s name and _begging_ for him.

 

The side that had completely forgotten about Gabe (or anyone else, for that matter), and just had _Pete_ on his mind.

 

Pete’s smile widened, but not to the usual grin. It had a hint of superiority, knowing that he had figured out his client, and knowing that Patrick was aware of that (knew he was just like all the other Johns, yet another pervert, with same old, tired wishes; a well-known feeling that still made Patrick cringe). He undoubtedly noticed Patrick’s hesitation and shame, and Patrick hated, hated, _hated_ how that made him feel. Why did _he_ feel like he was in the wrong and vulnerable even though it was _Pete_ who was a hooker that had to bend to Patrick’s will?

“You’re really making me work for my money, hm?” Pete winked at him as he poured the lube on his fingers. “Not fair, depriving me of your hands and cock like that,” he continued, faking a pout, but Patrick shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood to dwell on this any further, just wanted to sit back and enjoy the entertainment for as long as he could keep up the denial, and for as long as he could keep up the pretense. “It’s my time, so I want to make sure to make it worth my money.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Patrick,” Pete laughed, fingers now slick with lube and resting between his legs. “When have I ever disappointed you?”

The truth was, never. Pete was damn good at what he did, and by now he knew very well how to press Patrick’s buttons. Not that Patrick would give him the satisfaction to let him know that (though he was sure Pete was smart enough to figure that out, anyway – _why else would I come back to him?_ ).

“Stop talking,” Patrick said instead, hunger seeping into his voice. “I told you what to do.”

Pete gave him another grin, but remained silent. One hand rested on his cock, the other one went further downwards.

 

 

Pete on his back, one hand on his cock while the other hand was between his legs, working himself open for Patrick – it was sinful, it felt wrong to look, voyeuristic and obscene and _so damn dirty_ ; and Patrick couldn’t stop staring.

“Oh, so good, Patrick!” Pete whispered, looking at Patrick with lascivious eyes and a smug smile. He was stroking his cock slowly, two digits already inside of him. “You like seeing me like this? Enjoying the view? Am I a _good_ little slut?”

 

“Yeah, Pete,” Patrick heard himself say, “fuck, such a good slut for me.”

 He cringed when he heard himself involuntarily repeating the hooker’s words. He had heard Pete use words like that before, but Patrick thought he was certainly above actually using such terms. Those weren’t words someone like him would say _out loud_ , they were perverse, crass, wrong –

 

“Fuck, I can’t wait to have your cock inside of me,” Pete continued, that pesky smile still on his lips as he continued to jerk himself off, adding a third finger now. He was panting, lips slightly parted, the blood rushing through his veins coloring his face and his dick in the most gorgeous dark shades of red. “Look at me, Patrick, I’m being such a naughty boy for you!”

Oh, and did Patrick look, and oh, Pete made for an entrancing sight, _and all of it belonging to me_. Patrick could feel himself growing hard again, the pleasant memories of the hooker’s mouth on his cock just a few minutes ago mixing with the promise  of the dirty words coming out of it now.

He shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t need this like he did, but he did need it; he _craved_ it like Pete craved those fucking smokes of his, maybe even like he needed those pills in his bag.

 

“Don’t be so mean!” Pete whined, batting his eyes and twisting his mouth into the parody of a pout. “Fuck, I know I’ve been so bad, but come on, please, don’t make me wait any longer. I _need_ you, Patrick.”

Always the same lies, dressed up in different words, but Patrick never grew tired of them. It was stupid, exaggerated, it should have made him laugh or turned off. But coming from Pete, it somehow felt so right, and did anything but turn Patrick _off_.

 

“Such a greedy little slut,” Patrick hissed, and _this_ time, the demeaning word fell alarmingly easy from his lips. “So, you want my dick? Want me to fuck you, Pete, like the needy whore you are?”

He didn’t know where these words came from, why Pete made him say such crude and embarrassing things. _This isn’t me, I’m better than this_.

No matter how he seemed to demean Pete with his words, though, part of him still felt like he had lost, given in, surrendered yet another part of himself to _this goddamn hooker_. It was infuriating.

But they kept pouring out of some previously hidden dark corner of his mind, uncorked by Pete’s uninhibited display, his wicked grin, his sheer _existence_. 

“Yeah, I’m so desperate for you,” Pete gasped, “because I’m a filthy whore who needs your dick, a dirty boy who wants you to do even more dirty things to me!”

 

And at that, Patrick pushed the feelings of shame and regret aside, because really, it was all _Pete’s_ fault. Pete with his stupid smile, Pete being a dirty prostitute that had infected Patrick’s mind and put poisonous words in his mouth. _It was all Pete’s fault_.

 

“Don’t you worry, Pete,” Patrick snickered, unable to hold back, “I’ll fuck you just the way a dirty boy like you deserves.”

“Yes, Patrick, please, I can’t wait any longer, just _use_ me,” Pete moaned, sounding just the right amount of needy and desperate, just how Patrick wanted him. A trembling mess, shivering in anticipation of Patrick’s cock entering his body, no words left aside from undignified and unashamed begging.

 

“Turn around,” Patrick demanded, unable to hold back any longer. “On your hands and knees. I’ll give you what you want.”

 

Pete wordlessly held up one of the wrapped condoms. His fingers were still coated in lube, and they’d just been _inside of him_ … _Gross_. Patrick nodded, but motioned him to wait as he impatiently went through his drawer for a tissue. He finally found some, and handed one to the hooker. Pete did his best to clean his hands. “Better?” He inquired, and Patrick just nodded again, took the tissues out of his hands and carelessly threw them on the nightstand.

He let the hooker roll the rubber over his dick, noticing with slight embarrassment how hard he was even though he had barely touched himself, and he was aching for more, unable to suppress a small sigh when the hooker’s hand touched him.

 

“You’re gonna want more lube,” Patrick said breathlessly, briefly remembering his one-night stand with Gabe, and Pete let out a hoarse laugh. “If you say so.” He poured more of it over his hand, and coated Patrick’s dick in it with precise strokes.

 

Patrick forgot about Gabe, forgot about everything else as all his attention focused on the tender hand stroking his cock, and the mischievous brown eyes looking at him. The mood shifted back to feverish lust and hunger, hunger for Pete’s body and words, hunger for _more_.

Patrick groaned impatiently, and held up his hand. “Enough. Get on all fours now.”

 

“As you wish, Patrick!” Pete cooed, and his playful tone sounded like pure mockery.

 

 _No_. Pete was supposed to beg and whimper, there was supposed to be nothing on his lips but broken moans and Patrick’s name, and Patrick gritted his teeth. Oh, but he’d make the hooker beg some more, fuck him senseless, replace his smug attitude with rightful submission, _just like he deserves_.

Heat pooled into Patrick’s stomach as he slid himself into Pete, his body warm and welcoming as always. He started with a few small thrusts, relishing in the all-too familiar feeling.

 

Patrick leaned forward. “Touch yourself, Pete,” he whispered, voice raw and sounding needier than he wanted to admit. “Wanna feel how you come. Be the _good little slut_ you promised to be.”

 

Pete obeyed, because in the end, he always did. The hooker could smile as much as he wanted to, look as pretty as he pleased, it didn’t matter, all that mattered was that Patrick had the last word, the commanding grip, control over the situation, power over Pete. _His_ words decided what to do, _his_ hands decided what and whom to touch, _he_ made Pete squirm and moan for more, _more, more of me, me, and me alone_ , more, “more, Patrick, please, I want more!”

This was so much better than the sex with Gabe, for all the wrong reasons. With Gabe, Patrick would have never dared to say such things, would have never allowed himself to be so unrestrained, he had felt obligated to please him and leave a good impression; but _Pete_ had no right to judge him, Pete’s opinion didn’t matter, Pete’s sole purpose was to please _Patrick_ , that was all that mattered.

 

One of Pete’s hands was wrapped around his cock, stroking himself in a pace matching Patrick’s. He briefly regretted telling Pete to get into this position; he liked seeing Pete’s face while he was fucking him, the blush, the half-closed eyes, mouth trembling with broken-up words and other sweet, sickly-sweet noises; and he loved to see Pete’s face when he came, looking so pretty and so _ruined_ , and all of it belonging to him, _Patrick,_ and no one else.

But he could still hear his moans and well-worn pleas, feel the warmth of the inside of his body, and the two dimples on Pete’s lower back that were surely just created so that Patrick could place his thumbs there, fingers clutched into tan skin as he pulled Pete closer, slammed harder into him, fast and greedy.

 

Pete was panting, words now replaced with erratic breathing and torn-up nonsensical syllables, and he pushed back harder against Patrick in a silent plea for more. His cocky display was now just tantalizing little whimpers, and Patrick knew the hooker was close to coming.

Patrick wanted to see him fall apart, he wanted to feel him squeeze up and explode, wanted his victory. Wanted to claim everything that was within his grasp, even though deep down he knew Pete would stay out of reach for him forever.

 

“Come for me, Pete,” he hissed, “show me what a good little whore you can be!”

 

Pete let out another whine. “Fuck, Patrick, I –“

 

Patrick could feel Pete tighten around him as he came, hear his usual whines, feel the same nasty triumph in the darkest corner of his brain. _He_ had made Pete come, he and he alone. Finally, Patrick had wiped off that pesky, knowing grin off Pete’s lips, left him as a trembling, panting, _satisfied_ mess, and maybe for a second, made him forget that he was nothing but another John.

Pete pressed his face into the pillows, sweat and make up staining the sheets, and his muffled sounds barely reached Patrick’s ears anymore. Not that Patrick could pay much attention to that, he was too close to coming, sweet release just out of reach, and all he could concentrate on was the Pete’s hot, sweaty skin burning under his fingers, the feeling of being inside of him, and finally, the joyous feeling of the orgasm that had been building up inside of him.

 

Patrick came with one last moan, Pete’s name on the tip of his tongue.

 

It didn’t matter that Pete was a hooker, that sex happened on borrowed time, that other men bought him too; because right now, at this very moment, Pete was _his_ and his alone.

 And as long as money continued to buy him any of this, Patrick would be glad to throw every last penny at Pete. If this was madness, then how pleasant it was to be insane! And if this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.

 

 

But he knew that he would soon be dragged out of the comfortable illusions again: when the afterglow wore off and reality seeped back into his brain, a faint chorus of guilt and disgust; when he had to pull out, drenched in sweat but already missing the warmth of Pete’s body; when sometimes, Pete’s eyes would meet his own and for a moment, they were completely blank, devoid of any emotion, which was worse than seeing lies, hurt, or sadness in them.

 

The hooker had turned around, now laying on his back, and removed the condom from his client.

“Give me that.” Patrick took the used rubber from Pete’s hand, wrapped it in two tissues, and carefully placed it on the nightstand next to the other used tissues, making a mental note to throw them away later.

But for now, he wanted to have this moment to last a little longer, didn’t want to wake up and go back to a depressing reality yet. He remembered the warm feeling in his chest from seeing Gabe in this position, the intimacy, and how nice it had been, _not feeling like an anonymous face for once_.

 _Cuddling_ with a hooker seemed absurd, but there wasn’t any harm in keeping Pete in his bed a little longer, even if just to _look_.

 

“Want me to throw that away on my way to the bathroom?” Pete asked, nodding in the direction of the tissues as he sat up.  

 “Wait.” Patrick shook his head as he put his hand on Pete’s chest, stopping him from getting up. No, he didn’t want Pete to go yet.

 

 

Patrick didn’t really push, didn’t even put much force behind the touch –  but for the first time, he could feel resistance, and for the first time, there was a flash of pure anger in Pete’s narrowed eyes.

Confused and surprised, Patrick withdrew his hand. Pete sat up, hands raised, and for a moment, it looked like he wanted to shove Patrick away. Instead, he drew his knees to his chest, and settled for words instead of violence.

 

“If the gentleman wants to do anything else, he has to pay first.” Pete’s voice was sharp, animosity instead of the usual confident smugness swinging in it.

“I don’t want to do anything. Just – just stay for a moment.” Patrick was still taken aback by the sudden change of the mood, and the change in Pete’s attitude.

“Why?” Pete asked, eyes still narrowed and hands now clenched into fists.

“Because you look beautiful,” Patrick murmured, _and because I want to keep you to myself for just a little longer_. He hesitated for a moment, before the grim realization behind the reason of Pete’s defensiveness hit him.

“I – I don’t have any ill intentions, or anything.” Patrick bit his lip. Saying that out loud, knowing how this must be a very real possibility to Pete, _knowing he sees me as a threat, a potential danger, nothing but a malicious stranger willing to take advantage of him_ , made Patrick slightly nauseous. Suddenly, the situation didn’t look that appealing anymore.

Defiance and desperation flooded Patrick’s agitated mind. No, _he_ wasn’t one of those dreadful Johns, he wasn’t violent, _I don’t mean to harm or hurt Pete, I didn’t do anything wrong._

 

The tension lingered on for a few more seconds, before Pete let out a small chuckle, and sent Patrick a look he couldn’t quite place.

 

“Can’t get enough of admiring me today, hm?” he teased, his face now arranged into his usual grin and with no more anger in his voice. He shrugged, and leaned back onto the pillow.

Still, Patrick felt like he had crossed a line he wasn’t meant to cross. He felt the need to apologize, though he wasn’t even sure what for. Pete remained silent, eyeing him, emotions hidden again under the usual mask of smugness and nonchalance.

There he was; all Patrick’s for just a little longer. Naked and exposed, hair messy and the stupid make up around his eyes now partly smeared over his cheeks. Patrick felt goosebumps as well as the last bit of sweat and partly dried cum underneath his fingers as he traced the well-known lines of Pete’s tattoos.

But Pete’s involuntary vulnerability wasn’t appealing at all. Just like before, Patrick felt like he wasn’t supposed to look, but now it didn’t feel arousing or tempting anymore. Just wrong. It was just a grim reminder that Patrick was nothing but a client, and that there were things he simply couldn’t (or shouldn’t) buy. _How could I even forget? Sappy cuddling afterwards is reserved for normal people like Gabe, not hookers._

 

His one-night stand might not have helped him get over Pete, but it had made clear that there were things Patrick could never get from Pete, and deep down inside of him, Patrick knew that the doubts he had always had were starting to blossom into ugly, twisted flowers.

 

Patrick wanted to pretend not to notice the slight tension in Pete’s shoulders, and he looked away from the narrowed eyes still looking at him with distrust. He didn’t want to think of what else besides his client’s cocks Pete put into his mouth, choose to ignore some of the discolorations on Pete’s skin where someone else had ignored the hooker’s rules, and choose to ignore that some of the black ink decorating his body was already starting to fade just slightly, just enough to be noticeable at a second glance, just enough to make Patrick bite his lip and hold back questions about what other part of his body Pete did not, could not, wasn’t able to afford caring about.

Patrick furrowed his brows, and absent-mindedly ran his finger over one of the small bruises on Pete’s hip (where someone else’s hand had been less gentle with him), as if he could wipe it away.

 

“Careful, Patrick,” Pete whispered, “don’t forget, I’m _dirty_.” And Pete’s words didn’t sound playful or appealing this time. A loud, ugly laugh followed them, sounding bitter and poisonous instead of lighthearted or endearing.

 

And for a terrifying moment, Patrick couldn’t help but feel that _he_ was the one that was dirty; because he was the one hiring a hooker, and he was the one who forced Pete to stay, humiliate himself a little longer just for his egotistical amusement.

Again, Patrick felt like apologizing.

He could taste the unsaid words on his lips, feel them burn in his throat, buzzing through his brain in an endless, useless chorus of _I’m sorry_. He didn’t know where these words came from, why he suddenly felt the urge to apologize to a _hooker_ , why he even _cared_ in the first place, _I didn’t do anything wrong, I didn’t –_  

 

He remained silent, and Pete stood up. “If you want me to stay longer, you’ll have to pay.”

 

Patrick couldn’t deny that he was tempted. All it would take was more money, and he could own Pete for just a little longer.

 _No, not_ **_own_** _. I can just rent his body for a while, like all the other desperate Johns._

And he felt like he had crossed enough lines recently. Keeping the hooker for any longer felt like a step into a dark, dangerous territory that Patrick wasn’t ready to explore yet. He shook his head. “No, thanks.”

 

Pete shrugged. “We’re done, then.”

 

Patrick nodded, not daring to meet his eyes, and felt a strange wave of relief flooding him when he heard the bathroom door shutting behind Pete. He put on the nearest shirt and underwear he could find, and went back to the living room.

Pete exited the bathroom, properly dressed and painted again, and Patrick wondered if he could taste a faint hint of artificial happiness if he kissed him on the lips (and maybe, the last hint of whatever Pete probably had just swallowed in the bathroom). Kissing Gabe had felt good, _oh so good, and maybe it feels even better with Pete –_

But Patrick didn’t kiss him; just pressed the usual tip into Pete’s awaiting hands, all too eager to hear the usual thanks, feel the usual satisfying sense of power that money oh so generously continued to buy him.

 

One last nod from Pete, a toothy smile and honey-sweet eyes meeting his client’s silent gaze.  

 

“See you, Patrick.”

 

Pete left, as always; and as usual, Patrick was left behind alone in shame and defeat, and a new layer of guilt. He went back into the bedroom to pick up the used tissues, only to notice the stains of sweat, lube and make up on his sheets.

  
Patrick tossed them into the laundry bin without a second look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we done with the angst yet? Absolutely not. But don't worry, from next chapter on, there will be even more things happening to fuel the already existing doubts in Patrick... Stay tuned!
> 
> And as always, feel free to leave a comment and give your honest opinion!~


	4. William, It Was Really Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In another attempt to get over Pete, Patrick sleeps with a different hooker. It doesn't go as planned.  
> And next time he sees Pete, things with him don't go as planned, either...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, this chapter is still mostly Peterick, but again that part is a little later in this chapter.  
> Title from a The Smiths song. As always, thanks to the wonderful Michelle for being such a patient Beta reader! <3
> 
> Warnings for implied/referenced drug abuse, I guess?

Patrick’s life became a series of lines carefully drawn, and then crossed. Hesitantly, but crossed nonetheless.

 

His one-time fling with Gabe hadn’t helped. Gabe was just too different. He lived in a whole other world, one of parties and fun, with no worries, guilt, or regrets. A world Patrick felt like he no longer had access to. He hadn’t spoken to Gabe ever since that night, and hadn’t seen him at the studio.

 Besides, he still wasn’t sure if he wasn’t just another semi-drunken and already half-forgotten one night stand to Gabe, anyway. And he wasn’t too keen on finding out anytime soon. Gabe could do better than him, and Patrick could do better than being rejected by someone like Gabe. Not _trying_ to be anything more was easier than being a fool by thinking he _could_ be anything more. _More than just the cash in my wallet, more than a replaceable stranger, more than a nobody_ –

But whatever Gabe was, he wasn’t a substitute for _Pete_. And whatever Pete was, it started to surpass the category of _just some random street hooker_ , as Patrick had to admit to himself with panic. There still had to be a way out, he just hadn’t found it yet.

 

Instead, he had found his way back to Pete’s street.

Patrick had parked the car at the usual spot, only to notice at a second glance that Pete wasn’t standing at his usual corner. Patrick felt almost relieved. This should have been his sign to drive off, to try again another night. But before he could do so, someone knocked on his window.

It was the other hooker he had frequently seen standing here, talking to Pete sometimes. Patrick had never interacted with him before, but now, the guy sparked his curiosity. Was he a friend of Pete’s? It felt like getting a tiny peek of a Pete that Patrick usually didn’t get to see.

Besides, the boy had already knocked on the window. It was too late to back out.

Up close, he looked younger than Pete; a smooth, unblemished face, gleaming eyes and brown hair carefully arranged over his forehead. Still, there was a mischievous sparkle and a certain smugness in his facial expression, and he made sure to lean close to his potential client, let Patrick get a good view of him.

 

“Looking for something?” The boy asked with a wink.

“Is Pete not working today?” Patrick inquired.

The boy shrugged. “He’s away.” _With another customer_ , was the unspoken implication behind his words. Patrick mentally cursed himself for asking such a stupid question. _Where else would Pete be?_

“Pete might not be here, but _I_ happen to be available,” the boy said, lowering his voice. The grin on his face widened, showing off a set of clean, white teeth, and dirty, calculated intentions. “Would you like to take me home, sir? I know I’m getting a little desperate for some company…”

It was obvious who the boy was trying to imitate. His grin, his posture, his attitude, it all felt like a faded copy of Pete. The boy was imitating the other hooker’s gestures and voice, and considering their very different looks, he did a good job. He, too, had something that just captured people’s attention effortlessly, and a somewhat innocent spark of excitement mixed with the promise of promiscuity on his pretty face.

 

But that wasn’t enough.

Patrick shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”

It was clear that Pete wasn’t available, and Patrick didn’t feel like taking his impostor.

A quick shadow passed over the boy’s face, but it was gone immediately. “Too bad,” he said nonchalantly and shrugged again, “you’re missing out. But… suit yourself, I guess.” He leaned back, but his hand still lingered on the window sill, to stop Patrick from rolling up the window up again. “My name’s Brendon,” the boy said, and winked. “Just in case you want to ask for _me_ , hm?” His hand slid back to the pockets of his jeans, and Patrick, not knowing how to respond, just nodded.

 

Brendon went back to his spot, and leaned against the wall. He fiddled out another cigarette, and kept his eye out for another, more willing John.

Patrick considered his options. He could just leave and go home, drink a bit to relax, call it a night and go to bed.

 

But he felt the familiar nagging feel of something other than sheer sexual tension. More than desire. And the thought of coming home to an empty apartment wasn’t exactly comforting either.

The former feeling of relief was replaced by an irritating flash of jealousy. Pete was supposed to be available. Pete was supposed to be here, was supposed to be doing and saying all the things _Patrick_ wanted him to, _not someone else_. This had been an unfriendly reminder that he had to share Pete with others, something Patrick did not like to think about.

Still, the nasty feeling of jealousy and something that Patrick could only describe as disappointment was unsettling.

Pete was a prostitute. There was no need to feel jealousy for a hooker. It wasn’t Patrick’s job to care or worry about whatever other client purchased him (or what said client was doing with, or to Pete right now). _None of this should matter_.

There certainly was no need to feel disappointed for not being able to see Pete tonight. There was no need to feel anything for him. There was no need to be so goddamn fixated on this one hooker.

 

No, if he couldn’t have Pete, he could just take someone else.

Patrick felt spiteful, and maybe just a little desperate, and a mantra of _I don’t need Pete, I don’t need him, I don’t –_ ran through his head. He – _unlike a hooker_ – was free to choose. He didn’t have to, shouldn’t have to rely on Pete’s presence for pleasure. And if a one-night stand wasn’t the solution to this stupid infatuation with Pete, maybe another hooker was.

He wanted someone the opposite of Pete, he wanted to see something else. Patrick longed for something different, just to prove (to _whom_ , Patrick wasn’t sure) he wasn’t dependent on Pete. And part of him felt weirdly defiant for his decision to just take someone else. Just to show Pete that he wasn’t important, that Patrick could take home whomever he pleased, and stop anytime he wanted, _because I don’t need him_.

 

He found what he was looking for at the end of the street when he was almost willing to give up.

The boy was younger; probably over eighteen, but most likely not old enough to drink. He was a timid fawn, all long limbs and skinny legs. An ethereal face with big brown eyes, framed by soft brown hair. He looked shy, and had a certain aura of innocence to him, which sparked Patrick’s interest. It made for a sharp, captivating contrast to his profession. It made for a  distinct contrast to _Pete_.

He motioned for the boy to come over.

Patrick briefly remembered the first time he decided to take home a prostitute: the nervousness, the hesitation, how long it had taken him to work up the courage to make an approach. Little of that was present now. Once the line had been crossed, it became easy ( _frighteningly easy,_ as Patrick had to admit to himself) and weirdly acceptable to him to take home yet another stranger.

A quiet voice came out of that pretty mouth. “I’m William,” he whispered when he got into the car.

Patrick hadn’t asked for his name, and he regretted knowing it. He didn’t want to know. Patrick bit back a harsh reply, because the boy looked scared enough already; and he didn’t bother telling him his name.

_No, he’s not a_ **_boy_ ** _. He’s not a little child if he’s over the age of legal consent. He’s not a boy. It’s not fair to call him that._ Not fair for William, but mostly not fair for Patrick’s plagued conscience, which as always, he banished far, far into the deepest corner of his mind. 

 

William stumbled into the apartment, and looked about as nervous as his client felt. Patrick tried to compose himself as best as he could, and act like someone who had experience.

“First, you’re going to take a shower,” He started, gesturing towards the bathroom. He paused for a moment, before continuing: “Don’t bother getting dressed afterwards.”

William nodded, and disappeared into the shower and out of Patrick’s view.

 

When William came out of the bathroom, Patrick couldn’t help but admire him. He was beautiful in such a different way from Pete or even Gabe: pale skin and wavy hair hiding parts of his blushing face, pink lips smiling shyly. Just what Patrick needed to forget black hair, black ink, and an abyss of darkness.

“Bedroom’s that way,” Patrick said, pointing to the doorway. “Just follow me.”

The hooker didn’t talk much, and he obeyed Patrick’s rules and silent commands without hesitation. No kisses, no touches, and just like Pete, William didn’t seem too sad about that.

William was a walking overage of everything: too young, too pretty, too skinny, too fragile.

 

And too _addicted_.

 

Now that he was closer to him, Patrick saw the track marks, little dots littered around the blue veins shining through his translucent skin, some of them blossoming into tiny red flowers. There were scratch marks his body, and Patrick wasn’t sure if they were the result of a rough client, or William’s own hands.

It was quieter than usual, as neither the hooker nor Patrick talked much. And Patrick didn’t bother with much foreplay or finesse. He just wanted to get this over with, the slightest hint of regrets already creeping up on him. He was just doing this to forget Pete, using William to get over his infuriating obsession, the dreadful dependence on the other hooker, but Patrick suspected now that this hadn’t been his best idea.

It felt so different with William, even though he was just another prostitute, _like Pete._ But he was so _unlike_ Pete in every other way. His looks, his behavior, the lack of confident, cocky words, and the slight cautiousness in his brown eyes that looked a little too blank, with irises that were too large and pupils that were too small.

But William’s face looked beautiful, especially with the blush coloring it pink, beautiful enough to let Patrick forget his doubts for now, enough for him to ignore the artificially constricted pupils looking at him (or looking in the distance, somewhere far away, imagining a much nicer place to be) and to let him ignore the bright discolorations on his too pale skin.  

And William’s body felt good, hot, and tight around Patrick’s cock, and he looked so pretty with his legs parted and his face flushed, so Patrick just gritted his teeth, willing himself to forget, forget, _forget everything_.

 

The hooker let out tiny moans under Patrick, tossing his head around and keeping his long fingers clutched into the sheets, just as told. _A nice, docile little pet_ , Patrick recalled Pete’s words, sounding arrogant and condescending in his head.

Then, of course, he thought back to all the humiliating, obscene things _he_ had said last time during sex. It had been in the heat of the moment, but still, Patrick couldn’t help but wince, couldn’t help but feel like there had been a little too much truth behind his words. A truth that had said more about himself than Pete.

 

None of this seemed fit or even vaguely appropriate with William. He didn’t deserve to be treated coldly and condescendingly, and hurling words like _filthy whore_ at him or thinking William deserved _any_ of this felt plain wrong. Patrick suspected that William wouldn’t care much if he called him by these insulting terms, had probably heard worse, and his head was likely too clouded with drugs to grasp the full impact of reality, anyway.

Patrick could do whatever he wanted with him. _I am a paying customer, and he’s just a hooker_. One who was certainly past the point of caring, too. It was what Patrick had wanted, power over someone else, but now that he got it, he wasn’t sure if he really wanted it anymore.

 

Patrick was in control, more than he had ever been with Pete. He could have done whatever he wanted, use and abuse this body however he pleased, but strangely, it gave him absolutely none of the satisfaction he had anticipated. It felt _wrong_ to touch William, as if he might break apart if handled harshly, so Patrick tried to touch him as little as possible.

Not only that, but Patrick also didn’t want to add to the abuse already done to the hooker’s skin. It seemed as though like each unwanted touch would leave a mark on the too fragile, too delicate-looking body. His hands would only add another ugly, undeserved stain that would display Patrick’s inner ugliness and _filth_. No, he didn’t want his dirty hands to leave traitorous clues on William’s skin for all the world to see.

On top of that, the angry, red track marks caused him to shudder, and made him feel queasy if he thought too long about it. Instead, Patrick closed his eyes and tried to focus on the warmth and tightness of this body, instead of the dark, cold things about it.

 

Patrick managed to come eventually, almost relieved that he was finally done. He hadn’t touched William’s cock while he had fucked him, hadn’t bothered to make him come too, but he figured that the hooker probably didn’t care much about that. Or, that’s what he told himself. He pulled out, and grabbed one of the tissues on his nightstand to remove the condom. He was glad to have an excuse to escape the sight of the trembling stranger in his bedroom.

 

When he came back, he found William still sitting on the bed. He absentmindedly scratched his arm, leaving behind fresh scarlet scratch marks and a little bit of blood that seeped under his fingernails. Patrick shuddered. _At least now I know where the scratch marks come from_.

William didn’t stop, a dreamy expression on his face as he relieved the urge to scratch, dug his nails deeper into numb skin as if he was unaware of pain. The sound of his nails scraping against flesh filled Patrick’s ears and left goosebumps on his own skin. He grabbed the hooker’s wrist, forcing him to stop. William looked up, his expression slightly irritated and alarmed, as if he was just woken up from a long sleep.

“Stop it,” Patrick demanded, clutching his fingers around the bony wrist, “that’s enough. You’re only hurting yourself.”

William gave him a shaky smile. “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered (lacking his client’s name), his chemically altered eyes looking at his customer with fear. It took Patrick a few seconds to realize that he was still holding his wrist in a tight grip, and that he had probably scared him with his rigid tone and harsh gesture. He immediately let go; William withdrew his hand and retreated to the other end of the bed.

The hooker didn’t say anything, but his mouth silently pleaded his client to _please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry, please don’t_ –

 

Suddenly, Patrick felt sick. The thought that he had caused someone to feel this intimidated, this afraid of him, with just a few words and a thoughtless gesture, was nauseating. He was reminded of the last time with Pete: the anger in those hazel eyes, the distrust and defensiveness.

 

The prospect of power suddenly seemed very unpleasant. It wasn’t reassuring, it wasn’t triumphant, it wasn’t a clever little game to be won.

 

It was just sad, pitiful, and _wrong_.

 

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” Patrick said in a soft voice, hoping to sound honest and reassuring, “I didn’t mean to scare you. Really, I – I won’t hurt you.” _Smooth, Patrick_ , he scolded himself, and felt a wave of embarrassment roll over him.

The hooker only raised his brows, and continued to stare at him. His hands were clenched into fists, either as a defense reflex or to stop himself from picking his skin again. Patrick silently cursed himself for not having to offer anything better than empty words that probably sounded like lies (especially considering he had just proven them wrong a few minutes ago, when he was on top of William, taking possession of his body, probably doing everything except _not_ hurting him).

“Is there anything I can do? Do you need help?” The words felt like stale clichés before Patrick even voiced them. But he had no idea what else to say.

Awkward silence settled between them. Patrick grew increasingly nervous, felt the embarrassed blush on his face radiating heat. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. _Stupid, stupid, so damn stupid_. His nails dug a little deeper into his skin, an unconscious mirroring of William’s behavior. Patrick wanted to apologize, maybe turn back time and undo his actions, but it was already too late for any of that.

He almost wished that the hooker would lash out against him, or call him out on his hypocrisy. He could have dealt with words, even with violence and physical pain. _Anything_ would have been better than this deafening silence, the defeature, the helplessness.

 

But William just shook his head.

 

Patrick wanted to offer something better, say something meaningful. He opened his mouth, only to close it again without any further words leaving his lips. What did he have to offer to William? He wasn’t in any position to offer William _anything,_ knew he couldn’t help the boy ( _because in the end, that’s what he is – nothing but a boy; whether you like it or not_ , Patrick’s resurfacing conscience chimed in), and that the hooker would probably refuse whatever further clumsy attempt at help Patrick proposed anyway.

In the end, he had nothing, like always. He was helpless, just so helpless, and the hooker sat on his bed like a silent accusation, a grim reminder of how little control Patrick had, how little _real_ power Patrick possessed.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick mumbled. For what exactly he was sorry for, he wasn’t even sure. Not that it mattered; it was too late for an excuse, he knew.

William just shook his head again. But his expression hardened, and his hands were still clenched into fists. On top of everything else, Patrick had now successfully added _pity_ to the list on insults.

“Get dressed. We’re done.” He didn’t dare to look at William while saying that. _Like a damn coward_ , Patrick thought angrily, and bit his lip. But he just wanted William to leave. His sadness was seeping into Patrick’s bedroom, staining his thoughts and polluting the air, making it hard to breath.

“May I use the bathroom, please?” William asked meekly, also avoiding his client’s eyes.

Patrick hesitated for a moment, but he couldn’t come up with any excuses. “Sure,” he found himself saying, “Go ahead.” He remembered the blood underneath the hooker’s finger nails. “And make sure to wash your hands,” Patrick added, instinctively inspecting his own hand that had touched the hooker’s blood-soiled fingers, and dug into his own skin just now. But there was no trace of red on them.

 

It was obvious that William longed to run, wanted to get away from stupid, stupid Patrick and his clumsy words, longed for escapism in the form of comforting chemicals and sharp needles.

If William used his bathroom to shoot up, there were no visible traces left behind (maybe there were on the boy, but Patrick couldn’t bring himself to look). Still, Patrick ended up cleaning the room for hours, desperate to get rid of stains that weren’t there. He didn’t want to think about the slow death that his money was buying the boy right now.

Patrick wondered what drugs Pete was taking (remembering the small containers and their content in Pete’s bag); how he checked out of reality. How he distracted himself from an ugly world filled with sadness _and despicable, filthy people like me_. He wondered _why_ Pete was standing in a dark alleyway with a too bright smile and too tight clothes, what Pete did with the money Patrick paid him, and if he was paying for Pete’s long, painful demise as well, actively destroying a human’s life. _Pete’s life_ ** _._ **

Suddenly, all kinds of questions buzzed through Patrick’s head, and unlike before, he couldn’t push them back anymore.

 

 

 

When Pete was done with his current John, he made his way back to his usual corner. Brendon offered him a cigarette, with wide eyes and a knowing grin. “You just missed him,” he said in a slightly nasal, teasing tone.

“Missed who?” Pete asked, annoyed, snatching the cigarette out of Brendon’s hand. It was obvious that the boy held some sort of information he was eager to share, but wanted to make sure that he had Pete’s full attention.

“Your new regular. The John with the blond hair, who always wears a hat and takes you back home, uh-?”

“Patrick,” Pete supplied, cursing himself just as he involuntarily gave away the name without even a second thought. Now, Brendon not only knew Patrick’s name, he also knew that Pete paid enough attention, cared enough about Patrick to immediately identify him as the John Brendon was talking about. Somehow, that gave Pete an uneasy feeling.

“Right!” the boy confirmed, and clutched his hands together. “ _Patrick_. That guy. He asked me for you.”

“He talked to you? Then how come you’re still here?” Pete mocked, but there wasn’t much bite behind his words. He couldn’t deny a slight feeling of relief – Patrick wanted _him_.

 

He spared a glance at Brendon. Pete was experienced, and confident in himself and his abilities, but Brendon was _fresh meat._ He was younger, had more stamina, was livelier, prettier, _dangerous_. He was an unwelcome reminder of the passage of time, the invisible merciless clock ticking in the back. Pete knew that guys like him were a dime a dozen, and Brendon was already lined up to be his replacement once – he shook his head, _once whatever_ –  

 “Oh, he might not have taken _me_ ,” Brendon said, interrupting Pete’s train of thoughts; and his grin got even bigger as he finally blurted out the treasured information he had been withholding. “But he took one of the other boys.”

A wave of heat rolled over Pete, and a nasty feeling settled in his stomach. One of the other boys. _Someone else_. Probably someone less troubled, _someone who was soft and cute and younger –_

There was no way he would let Brendon know that a sudden flash of anger and insecurity overtook him. Thankfully, lying had become a habit of his, so much so that Pete himself had trouble distinguishing between the real world and his false comforts anymore.

 

Pete laughed, and shook his head. “You must have done a lousy job if he talked to you, but still settled for someone else.” To his relief, the words came out calm and smooth.

“It’s not my fault your John has shitty taste,” Brendon scoffed, and stuck out his tongue. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice the slight edge in Pete’s voice.

“Oh, come on,” Pete replied, sticking his tongue out back at Brendon. “Don’t cry because some random dude didn’t appreciate your little twink ass. Why are you even telling me this?” he asked, trying to sound as calm and collected as possible.

The boy seemed disappointed at the lack of reaction. “I just thought-“

“Look, Brendon,” Pete interrupted him in a harsher tone than he had intended, “I really don’t care what my clients do outside the time they pay me for. And unlike you and me, Patrick can fuck whomever he wants.” He threw away the cigarette butt, let out another short laugh, and shook his head. “But don’t you worry. He’ll be back.”

Brendon raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“Trust me.” Pete clenched his fists as anger flooded him once more, mixed with a weird, unusual feeling of possessiveness. Patrick _had_ to come back. Patrick was _his_ client, he was _his_ to toy around with, and if anyone was to destroy Patrick and drag him down into the gutter, it would be Pete. With his eyes fixed on the wall across the alley, he murmured, “He will.”

 

Patrick would come back, and Pete would make him stay, _because I’m not just some replaceable whore,_ and he wouldn’t lose to whatever younger, fresher, prettier rival paraded the streets, _I can’t, I won’t, I won’t – no._

Memories from the last time flashed before his inner eye, bits and pieces of conversation and the feeling of a hand pushing him back, _again_ . And Pete recalled that still, _even after I put on my best show for him_ , Patrick had refused to let him stay. _And now, Patrick took home another hooker? He thinks he can humiliate me like that, abandon me that easily_?

Patrick might believe that he was the one who was in control, but Pete new how to get what he wanted, he knew how to play with clients like Patrick. He knew how to _win_. He wouldn’t allow Patrick to forget him so easily, and he wouldn’t allow Patrick to leave just like that. _He_ **_will_ ** _come back, because he needs me. He will be the one to beg for me._

 

Pete tried to focus on these thoughts, and tried to ignore the doubts that resurfaced again – _maybe he found someone better, maybe he got tired of me, what if I’m not good enough anymore? Am I not good enough? Not good enough? Not good enough? Not_ –

 

“It just would have been nice to have a new regular, y’know,” Brendon sighed after a while, too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the tension. “That Patrick guy pays well, doesn’t he?”

Pete shrugged, hands still clenched into fists. “Whatever. He’s not interested in you. Besides, you make good money. What do you have to worry about?”

To Pete’s surprise, Brendon avoided his gaze, and for a moment, he lost his cocky attitude and confident posture. “ _He_ likes it when I make money. When I make _a lot_ of money,” he whispered. “Like a good little whore.”

It took Pete a moment to realize who he was talking about. There was a man, a client, that Brendon was living with, as far as Pete knew. He’d never met the guy before, wasn’t even sure when this whole arrangement started, just knew the guy gave Brendon a place to stay, and demanded sexual favors in return. Not an unusual arrangement for desperate boys.

“Look, kiddo, I rarely give anything away for free, but here’s some advice you don’t need to pay for: That guy you’re staying with is not worth the trouble, and not worth whatever share he takes. Screw him; or better, don’t, and look for a better place to stay.”

“ _Oh really,_ Pete?” Brendon spat out, throwing the cigarette on the sidewalk. He stomped it out with more force than necessary. “Thanks for the advice. I’m glad it was free, because otherwise, I would have demanded my money back.”

Pete raised his eyebrows. Brendon rarely got angry, and had rarely talked back to him before.

“No safe place to stay – no place to stay at all,” Brendon said, a repetition of Pete’s own words, followed by the same joyless laugh. “He’s all I have. He’s all I _deserve_. I should be fucking grateful that someone wants to have a filthy whore like me around in the first place. And at least unlike all the other Johns, he stays with me. He cares about me, he doesn’t leave me, he won’t abandon me, I need him, and– whatever.” His tone had become defeated, bitter. He crossed his arms, and turned away.

 

Even though Pete couldn’t see his face, he knew Brendon was upset. For a moment, he wanted to place his hands on the boy’s trembling shoulders, comfort him. Part of him wanted to apologize, tell Brendon he was sorry, _sorry for everything – my words, my helplessness, for the world being such a fucking awful place._ _I’m sorry for being a failure, for not having anything to offer._

Pete wanted to say something, but he remained silent, _because what words are there left in my brain? Nothing but hurtful words and fucking lies._ And for once, he didn’t feel like lying to Brendon.

But the silence infuriated Pete. He wanted Brendon to yell at him, his screams repeating all the ugly words buzzing through Pete’s mind – _useless, worthless, a waste of space –_ he wanted Brendon to punch him, beat him until bruises became bloody injuries and his bones turned into fine dust. It would have been better if he hurt Pete, destroyed him, deconstructed him before he could do more harm and further fuck up the world.

But Brendon did no such thing, and Pete kept his hands to himself. He fished a small, innocent little pill out of his pocket and swallowed it dry, together with all the unsaid words. They waited in silence for another John, another quick fuck, and the end of yet another lonely night.

 

 

 

 

 

The incident with William left a bitter taste in Patrick’s mouth, and a nagging doubt in the darkest, far-off corner of his mind that he couldn’t shake off. This was joined by the unasked questions still occupying his mind. Questions he shouldn’t ask, questions he didn’t want to hear the answer to, questions for a person he shouldn’t be asking _anything_ in the first place.

Anyone else would have stopped. Any sane, rational person would have never come back. _Any sane, rational person would have never gotten involved in any of this_ , Patrick couldn’t help but think. Not that it mattered; it was certainly too late for regrets, _but not too late to back out_ –  

But apparently, not much to his surprise even, Patrick had left the realms of normality, because he came back. Came back to the small, inconspicuous street, came back to the hookers.

_No, not back to the hookers_ , Patrick thought grimly, _just back to_ **_Pete_** _._

 

Patrick parked his car in front of Pete’s spot, weirdly relieved to see the tattooed man standing there. Pete had a cigarette tucked between his lips, but as soon as he saw Patrick, he threw the half-smoked thing away and approached the familiar car.

“Good to see you again, dear Patrick,” Pete exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm, clutching his chest. “I missed you!” All toothy smile and expectant eyes, all pretty with his low-cut, tight clothes and with the tattooed skin Patrick grew to know so well, all _Pete_.

Patrick felt an involuntary smile tugging at his lips. “So did I,” he replied, and he suddenly wasn’t sure how much of a joke his remark really was anymore.

“The usual?” Pete asked, and Patrick nodded, already fumbling with his wallet. He handed Pete the money, and got another grin in return.

No, Patrick didn’t want anyone, he didn’t want a random hooker, he wanted _Pete_ , just Pete, and Patrick had never felt more wrong about himself. Lusting after a hooker was one thing, but _this_ –

Pete slid next to him into the car, the money already shoved out of sight and almost shoved out of Patrick’s thoughts. “I’m eager to be all yours, Patrick,” Pete purred, but Patrick just shook his head. They drove in silence, and Patrick tried his best to ignore the heavy feeling that had settled in his chest.

 

When they arrived at his apartment, Pete made his way to the bathroom right away. As always, he took a shower and Patrick poured himself a drink, waiting for the all-too familiar sight of the naked body he’d gotten to know a little too well.

When Pete came out of the bathroom, Patrick motioned him to come over.

He caught himself staring at the hooker’s body, searching for traces of abuse. But he saw nothing unusual. Like always, only a few pesky, minuscule, neglectable blemishes were visible – the shadow of a hand on his hips, and the shadow of a set of teeth on his collarbone, blending into the thorns of his tattoo. But at least, no scratch marks and no blood.

And from what Patrick could see, the only needles that had touched Pete’s skin were the ones that left ink underneath it.

He hesitantly stretched out his hands, and carefully ran them over Pete’s body. But he felt nothing except smooth skin, muscles, the hard outlines of the bones underneath, and the warmth of another human body. He bit back a remark about the bruising when he recalled Pete’s reaction from last time, and avoided touching them.

He pulled Pete closer, but his lips only found the last drops of water on the freshly-showered skin.

 

And for a moment, he could pretend that Pete was fine, that everything was _fine, just fine_ ; for one last moment, Patrick could just forget about everything.

 

Being well-acquainted with his client by now, Pete noticed the unusual behavior. “Something wrong, Patrick? Or just can’t get enough of me?” He asked playfully. “You’re unusually handsy today.”

“You – you don’t do any drugs, do you?” Patrick blurted out, instantly regretting his words. He hadn’t meant to actually ask any of the questions occupying his mind. He let go of Pete, took a step back, and reached for his glass. He needed something to hold on to (preferably something inanimate), and he needed to replace the silly words in his mouth with silent liquor.

To his surprise, Pete only laughed in response, though to Patrick it felt more mocking than warm.

“What, nervous because you fucked one of the little junkies? Don’t worry, Patrick, I’m not one of them,” he said, and there, there was the jab he’d been waiting for.

“Junkies?” It took him a few seconds to realize what, or rather, whom Pete was talking about. “You mean – wait, how do you even know?”

Pete shrugged, that malicious grin still on his lips. “It’s a small world I live in. Word gets around fast,” he explained, and playfully stuck out his tongue. Patrick noticed the new gesture, one he hadn’t seen on Pete before; he wasn’t sure how to interpret it.

“What… What about any illnesses?” Patrick mumbled, not daring to look into the hooker’s eyes. He fiddled with the tumbler in his hands, tapping his finger against the cold glass in a rhythm.

“That’s what the condoms are for.” Pete sounded annoyed. He must have heard this question more than once before. He came closer and craned down his neck, forcing his client’s eyes to meet his own. When Pete spoke again, he no longer sounded like answering a routine question. There was a hint of anger in his voice, something personal that felt like he had reserved it just for Patrick. “ _You_ of all people shouldn’t worry, Patrick. Aren’t you such a good boy, always wearing protection, and not even letting the dirty, diseased hooker kiss you on the mouth? So why are you worried? Why do you care?”

Patrick bit his lip, and traded the sight of the whiskey eyes for the whiskey in his glass. He felt like a scolded child. Why could he never find the right words with Pete, and why did Pete always find the right questions to render him speechless, and made him feel like a clueless idiot?

 

“Don’t call me a ‘good boy’,” he replied with anger, “and I never said you were diseased. Those are _your_ words, and I hope they aren’t true.”

Pete laughed, but this time, it didn’t sound malicious. Just his usual ugly bark, with only a slight hint of sadness. “If I say they aren’t true, and that I am perfectly healthy, will you believe me?”

“I don’t know. Healthy people don’t carry around loads of pills in their backpack.” Patrick’s voice faltered, and he still did not dare to meet Pete’s eyes. Yet another truth he had never meant to bring up.

 

Pete’s eyes widened in surprise; maybe he hadn’t expected Patrick to notice, or hadn’t expect him to ever talk about it. For a split second, Pete seemed to hesitate; he stretched his hands out, and caught between his slightly parted lips were words not meant to be heard by any John, by any _Patrick_. But soon enough he regained control over himself again, lowered his hands and swallowed the unspoken syllables.

“I don’t think that’s any of your goddamn business.” Pete’s voice sounded unusually harsh, as if he needed to convince himself of his own words as well. Patrick wanted to object, and part of him felt nothing but so damn angry. He wanted to yell, wanted to grab Pete’s shoulders and scream at him, wanted to force him to stop lying and tell him what plagued him, what monsters he was fighting – but that was impossible.

 

The mood had shifted, and Pete was clearly no longer willing to dwell on this topic.

 

“Whatever. Let’s not get all sad, Patrick. That’s not what I’m here for.”

It was the end of discussion, and whoever resided beneath the hooker’s skin retreated into their lair, once more out of reach for Patrick. And really, wasn’t Pete right? What did it matter, really? Patrick had no control over it. He could only decide to push this thought out of his mind, take the hooker’s word for granted and wear a condom, _just to make sure._

Pete gently took the empty tumbler out of Patrick’s hand, and placed it on the nearby table. “Go back to touching me,” he chirped, “I liked that a lot better.”

 

It was better to forget, and it was useless to get angry; it was better to go back to denial, and stop trying to acquire a piece of Pete he obviously did not want to sell.

 

But Patrick wanted to claim what little of Pete he could own; the exposed skin, the warmth of his body, the pretty mouth moaning Patrick’s name. Touching the surface was better than nothing, and oh, he was eager to touch. He wanted to take all he could get, even if that was just a shadow, an illusion.

He impatiently got rid of his shirt and unbuttoned his pants, carelessly letting both garments scatter somewhere to the floor. Socks and his underwear were next, and soon enough there was nothing in between them anymore (or at least that’s what Patrick wished for, could pretend right now).

He made his way over to the couch, and sat down. Pete knelt between his legs like always, ready to start, but Patrick shook his head. “Don’t. Stand up.” The hooker sent his client a questioning look, but stood up again. “I want you on my lap,” Patrick said breathlessly. Pete sat down, swinging his legs over Patrick’s and bringing their faces together closely.

“You know, Patrick, you broke my heart by being unfaithful to me.” Pete faked a pout. “I thought we had something special! How many other men have you slept with, huh?”

 

The question threw Patrick off. He was already half-hard, hands exploring the familiar territory of tan skin, his mind mostly occupied with the man straddling his lap. He didn’t want to think about someone else, other men; not Gabe, and especially not that disastrous experience with William.

And he certainly didn’t want to feel a pang of guilt over being accused of being unfaithful _– by a hooker, no less_.

The sickly-sweet, silver-tongued lies hurt the most. Patrick knew it was part of the game, careless words for uncaring Johns, nothing meant to be taken too seriously. But still, they made him angry, for all the wrong reasons. Patrick knew he wasn’t special, didn’t possess the power to break Pete’s heart, and he didn’t know why this even bothered him. He shouldn’t matter to Pete, and Pete shouldn’t matter to him.

 

“How’s that any of your business?” Patrick snapped, still angry and irritated, and he couldn’t help but hiss: “Besides, how many other men have _you_ slept with?”

The usual ugly laugh rolled off Pete’s lips, and he shrugged. “Twenty-six this week alone. But I swear, dear Patrick, there’s no need to be jealous – they meant nothing to me.”

 

Patrick knew he was telling the truth, _and that after he and I are done, there will be twenty-seven men this week alone with whom Pete had slept and who meant nothing to Pete, ever_. _Don’t forget, it’s all an act._

Twenty-six, _no, twenty-seven including me_. Why did Pete even tell him? He wasn’t sure if Pete just made that number up on the spot, or if he really kept track of his clients.

Either way, it sounded sickening.

“I didn’t really want to know that,” Patrick mumbled, anger and irritation gone now, replaced by the former feeling of having been scolded.

“Then why ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to?” Pete whispered.

 

But that was something Patrick couldn’t think about right now. It didn’t matter, anyway. All that mattered was the pleasant weight of another body balancing on him, the heat of Pete’s exposed skin against his own, hips pressing against his groin, friction, want _, want him, need him._

Patrick bit his lip, and buried his head in the nape of Pete’s neck. The closeness, the scent of his skin, the sound of him breathing and the warmth of his body all filling up his senses, and a chant of _PetePetePete_ replaced the unpleasant thoughts in Patrick’s mind.

 

Patrick didn’t want to bother with a blowjob this time, didn’t even want to bother going over to the bedroom; Pete was already all over him, all naked and gorgeous and tempting, and he wanted him _now_ , afraid that the thin illusion would disappear any second. Afraid that reality would soon paint this situation in a much harsher, much less appealing light, afraid that the goddamn questions would flood his brain again, ruining everything, afraid that –

_No, no, no_. Patrick clenched his fist, and willed himself to stop thinking. Focus, _focus – I am here to fuck a hooker, nothing else._

“Go grab the lube and a condom,” He demanded.

“Impatient today, aren’t we? What about your blowjob?” Pete inquired, laughing; Patrick felt the vibrations of his laugh traveling through his own body.

“Don’t care,” Patrick groaned; he couldn’t even be bothered trying to sound calm and collected. “Want you _now_.”

“Money’s non-refundable,” Pete pointed out, and Patrick huffed in annoyance. He didn’t want to think about money right now.

“I said I don’t care. Would you please just shut up and do what I say?”

 

Without further words, the hooker did as he was told. He placed both items next to his client, and sat down on Patrick’s lap again, facing him. Feeling Pete’s warmth caused Patrick to let out an involuntary sigh, and he couldn’t help but let out a small moan when Pete adjusted his position, and brushed against his erection. Patrick needed him closer _, closer, closer_ , and his hands greedily clenched into Pete’s hips, motioning him to move.

He grabbed the small bottle next to him, and managed to coat his fingers in lube behind Pete’s back, blindly, not caring that some of it landed on his legs. The hooker had used the moment to get his hands on Patrick’s dick, teasingly giving a few strokes. Patrick mirrored the movement, wrapped one hand around Pete’s cock, and let the other wander down his lower back, in between his cheeks, and let one finger enter his body.

 

Pete’s hand around Patrick’s cock, his voice in Patrick’s ears, his thighs squeezing into Patrick’s – now, this was much better than doubts, much more pleasant than talking, safer than questions. He couldn’t save Pete. That wasn’t what he was here for, and it wasn’t what Pete wanted either. It was better to push such stupid thoughts as far away as possible.

Patrick added a second finger, and soon pressed a third against Pete’s entrance.

To his surprise, he could feel Pete tense up around him, and heard him cursing as he shifted his body, trying to adjust his posture. But he still felt tight around Patrick’s fingers, too tight, not relaxed enough, almost as if he was – _uncomfortable_ , Patrick’s mind supplied.

 

“Something wrong?” Patrick finally inquired, and stopped his movements to look up. Pete’s facial expression was unreadable, but the tone of his voice had bordered on discomfort, and his half-limp dick felt pathetic in Patrick’s hand.

Still, Pete shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said, and arranged his face into his usual smile.

 

Patrick exhaled slowly, and withdrew his fingers. “Don’t treat me like an idiot. It’s clearly not fine.”

“I told you, it’s _fine_ ,” Pete replied with a smirk, but he sounded a little too harsh.

“I asked you a question.” Patrick’s voice was firm, and he was determined not to let the hooker get away with lies this time. _But twenty-six other men did something to him;_ _what if I don’t want to know the truth?  
_

“Bossy as always,” Pete cooed, and his faked indifference made Patrick grit his teeth. “Not satisfied, Patrick? Do you want me to beg?” He lowered his voice. “You like it when I say ‘please’, right? I can give you all the whines and moans and ‘please’ you want. Come on, please, I can take it, just go on –”

For a second, Patrick hesitated. He could just go on and believe Pete. He could pour a little more lube over his fingers and impatiently force his way inside, could still make Pete beg and moan anyway _because he’s a prostitute, paid for sex, not his own enjoyment. He’s a hooker, nothing but a whore, who cares?_

He didn’t owe Pete anything, he could do whatever he wanted, but Patrick thought back to his encounter with William, apathetic and awful. He bit his lip. No, for the first time, he didn’t feel like hearing Pete’s lies. “I don’t want any of that. I just want an answer to my simple question.”

 

Pete remained silent for a moment, and Patrick braced himself for snarky, angry remarks; maybe, he had gone too far.

But to his surprise, Pete averted his eyes, and the smile on his face faltered a little. “This is just not the most comfortable position to start,” he finally admitted with a small sigh. “Hard to relax. It’s fine once I’m prepped, but for the actual process of opening me up, well, not so much.”

Patrick nodded. “That’s fine. We can start off differently.”

“Sorry for the trouble. I’m usually better at taking fingers or dick,” Pete said, hands now clenched into fists and his gaze still not meeting Patrick’s, “But, y’know, sometimes, there are days where – whatever. And – I just need a little more time to adjust.”

 

The apologetic, almost embarrassed tone in his voice hit Patrick harder than anger would have. Pete sounded genuinely sorry, and what for? _For failing some disgusting, unworthy John_ ; _for not being able to fulfill_ **_my_ ** _sick, sad fantasies._

 

Pete was unusually tense, so little like the usual cocky and confident attitude he normally displayed. Patrick wasn’t sure if it was because he had given away a glimpse behind the curtain of the smooth, seductive, always willing hooker, or if he didn’t trust Patrick’s words, and expected his client to get angry and lash out against him. Either option caused a nauseating feeling in Patrick’s stomach, a throwback to William and everything he had wanted to avoid. He had never meant to cause anyone to be afraid of him, he never meant to _hurt_ anyone, he wasn’t one of those Johns, _except I am, except I hurt William, even hurt Pete, maybe, unintentionally or not._

 Even though it was Pete who had apologized, Patrick felt like he was the only one who was in the wrong here. A feeling he certainly didn’t appreciate.

“I said it’s fine,” Patrick repeated quietly. He put his hands on Pete’s hips, and gently motioned him to get off his lap. “Let’s just change positions.”

They both stood up, and for a few awkward moments, there was just silence and insecurity. Pete crossed his arms, still on guard, waiting for further instructions. It was usually Patrick who decided what to do, how to do it, told Pete to move, adjust positions, change the pace; Patrick made decisions, Patrick had control. That was what he liked about their arrangement, that was what he came back for.

 

But right now, he didn’t feel like that at all. Didn’t even _want_ that at all, to his own surprise.

 

“We can do whatever is comfortable for you,” Patrick said, suddenly feeling horrified. He realized that it was the first time he had ever offered Pete that, ever considered _his_ needs and wishes, ever considered that his enthusiasm may not only be exaggerated, but _forced_.

No, why the hell did he even care? Pete was a hooker, it didn’t matter what _he_ wanted. Pete wasn’t supposed to have emotions (other than the ones Patrick paid him to have). Pete was nothing but a _concept_ (an empty shell to be filled with Patrick’s fantasies, and Patrick’s tongue, fingers, dick). Pete wasn’t supposed to be more than a pretty face and warm body, wasn’t supposed to give commands, wasn’t supposed to hold any power over him.

Pete wasn’t supposed to _matter_.

_hen why with the questions all of a sudden? Why am I trying to humanize him? Why am I trying to make him more than he should ever be? Why, why -?  
_

 

Pete must have noticed the slightly panicked expression on his client’s face. He uncrossed his arms and reached for Patrick’s shoulders, but remembering his disapproval for touching him, he stopped halfway. Instead, he cleared his throat to get Patrick’s attention. “Hey. What’s the matter with you? You’re creeping me out today.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Patrick mumbled, and shook his head. He needed to focus, needed to regain his countenance, and he didn’t want to unintentionally scare yet another hooker with his thoughtless behavior. And he didn’t want Pete to notice how agitated he was.

“ _Hurt me_?” Pete scoffed, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “That’s cute of you, Patrick, but you’re not going to hurt me. I’m not some delicate flower.” He put his hand on his hip, and eyed Patrick with an odd, almost angry expression with a meaning that Patrick couldn’t quite interpret.

“I just – “ Patrick shook his head. “Just tell me how you want to start.”

“It’s easier when I’m on my back,” Pete sighed. He seemed annoyed, for whatever reason. “It’s easier to relax and adjust. Plus, with you between my legs, I have something pretty to look at,” he added with a wink, grinning at Patrick who just shook his head, and couldn’t help but feel like Pete was trying to distract him from something.

“Or I could do it myself, if you want to watch,” Pete offered, but Patrick shook his head again. “No. I want to, if – if that’s okay with you.”

“What a gentleman you are today,” Pete laughed, and positioned himself on the couch. “Well, then, sweet Patrick, don’t keep me waiting!”

 

The couch didn’t offer too much space, and he almost regretted not going over to the bedroom, but Patrick didn’t want to move right now. All he wanted was to focus on the person underneath him. Not the hooker. The _person_. Pete looked at him with questioning eyes and an expectant smile, and still seemed a little unsure of what to make of this new situation, and the weird, unusual change of pace. But he looked as gorgeous as always, with the pretty paint on and under his skin, his lean, naked body on display just for Patrick, who couldn’t help but bend down and bring his lips closer to Pete’s face.

For a moment, Patrick hesitated, tempted to kiss Pete on the mouth, to nibble on his lower lip, feel his tongue and teeth and taste his saliva, _taste Pete_. All he needed to do was lean a little closer; he was sure Pete would be surprised, but still kiss him back –

_Because that’s what he’s paid for,_ Patrick reminded himself _, of course he would kiss me back_.

There were already enough lies between them, and Patrick didn’t want to add kisses to the long lists of things he could buy, but never truly own.

 

Instead, he allowed himself to plant a kiss on Pete’s cheek, on his jawline, on his throat, feeling the pulse of Pete’s heart ( _hopefully unbroken, hopefully untouched, hopefully kept safe from me and every other John_ ) under his lips. A kiss on the hard outlines of collar bones, where Patrick was tempted to linger a bit longer, maybe suck on the soft skin a little, just enough to – _no_ , he scolded himself, _you’re trying not to screw this up again. And you know that leaving a mark is definitely against Pete’s rules_.

Someone else might have ignored that rule, but Patrick wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, _I’m better than that_.

Pete was less tense now, breathing steadily and letting out a soft moan when Patrick’s hand brushed against his cock. He ran his index finger from its head down to the base, before loosely wrapping it in his hand. There was still a bit of lube on his fingers, enough to let his movements be a little smoother.

Patrick ran his tongue over Pete’s nipples, and his heart started to beat faster when he heard Pete letting out another soft, appreciative moan. He filed that away for later use, wondering why he had never bothered to find out about this sooner.

_Because this used to be about me alone. Not him_. Patrick winced. _No, it’s still about me. He’s still a hooker, I’m still a client. Nothing has changed._ **_I_ ** _matter, not Pete._

But with Pete’s cock growing harder and harder in his hand, and with Pete’s little moans filling up his ears, there really wasn’t any room left in Patrick’s brain to examine these thoughts. He sat back up, and reached for the lube, pouring more of it over his fingers.

 

“May I?” He asked, gently resting his fingers against Pete’s entrance. It earned him another impatient, almost annoyed groan.

“I’m not a virgin,” Pete replied with an obvious mocking undertone, “stop pretending you’re going to hurt me.”

“I’ll take that as a yes?” Patrick inquired, and when Pete just rolled his eyes and nodded, he slowly let his first digit enter Pete’s body.

 

Patrick made sure to be slower this time, let Pete adjust properly, and found unusual pleasure in pleasing him. Usually, this part had been done hastily, greedily, Pete’s (pretended) arousal used as nothing but fuel to Patrick’s own lust and needs.

Now, Patrick was more gentle, attentive, and somehow, he felt off. It didn’t feel like the other times. He had always disliked the dark, dirty side that Pete had dragged out of him, felt guilty and disgusted with this part of himself, had wanted to stop. But why did _this_ new side, this change of behavior still feel wrong, on a whole new, dangerous level?

Patrick couldn’t, no, didn’t _want_ to figure out why.

He grabbed Pete’s cock again, and rubbed his thumb over the slit, wiping away some pre-come and leftover lube. He couldn’t help but think (not for the first time, if he were to be honest) that Pete’s cock made for a marvelous sight right now, hard, thick, and dark, the color a captivating contrast to the pale fingers currently holding it. It looked fascinating, appetizing; and for a brief moment, Patrick couldn’t help but fantasize about licking a stripe from the base to the head, taking it into his mouth slowly, teasingly swirling his tongue around Pete’s cock, all hot and wet and making Pete yearn for _more_.

He pushed that thought aside, feeling slightly uneasy. He didn’t need another unhealthy fantasy about this hooker.

 

He let a third finger enter Pete, and curled his fingers upwards, and he must have hit the right spot, because he could feel Pete tensing around him, hear Pete let out a sharp breath and an unashamed whimper – “fuck, Patrick, right there, shit, don’t stop, please!”

Hearing Pete gasp for air, seeing him entranced and biting his lip to hold back another moan, and feeling his body respond with arousal – it still felt satisfying, but in a different way. It wasn’t the usual feeling of triumph, having won whatever power play Patrick imagined there to be. It felt right, _dreadfully right_ , and strangely, _so goddamn wrong_ at the same time.

“Fuck, Patrick, do that again!” Pete pushed back harder against Patrick’s fingers, an impatient growl escaping his throat whenever Patrick did not move them hard or fast enough to his likings. “Stop being such a tease,” he whined, looking at Patrick with furrowed brows and a pout on his lips, and Patrick found himself laughing, a small but honest, light-hearted laugh that he hadn’t let out in quite a while, and certainly not around Pete. He had heard Pete beg before, heard all the deviations of the usual phrases, desperate and dirty.

Right now, it felt nothing like that.

“Ready to take me then?” He asked amused, and Pete groaned. “Yes, _please_.”

Patrick sat up, and grabbed one of the condoms that had fallen to the floor. He handed it to Pete, who tore open the wrapper and rolled it over him with fast, well-trained movements. “More lube?” Patrick suggested, and while he only got a scoff as an answer, Pete still poured more over his cock, spreading it all over with slow strokes. He looked at Patrick with dark eyes, the usual grin hiding his emotions, but still displaying a tempting sight.

“Want you inside of me, Patrick,” he whispered, “ _now_ , please.”

 

All Patrick could do was nod, too afraid that nothing but a pitiful moan would have left his lips. Pete’s grin widened, but he said nothing. Instead, he let go of Patrick’s dick, and let himself fall back onto the couch.

Patrick relished in the sight of Pete’s pretty, parted mouth and half-veiled eyes, the muscles working under his skin, the quiet whimper that fell from his lips as Patrick’s cock entered him slowly.

Patrick bit back another moan, and was glad to finally be distracted from the irritating stream of thoughts.

 

Pete spread his legs a little wider and slightly shifted his body, until he seemed satisfied with his position. “Ah, you feel fucking amazing in me, Patrick,” he whispered, a playful smirk back on his lips. He hesitated for a moment, before continuing: “Fuck, I’ve missed being your good little slut.” His smile widened as he had undoubtedly just remembered the last time, remembered Patrick’s eager participation and unusual willingness to throw back all the dirty words at him. “Tell me, Patrick, am I dirty enough for you? Am I a good little whore?”

Patrick remembered too, but even though the words fell effortlessly from Pete’s mouth, and even though he was sure Pete was used to being called by much worse names, this time, it didn’t seem appealing at all.

“Yeah, you’re so good for me,” Patrick groaned, hoping Pete would catch that he had no intentions of repeating the demeaning terms. He would rather forget about them, trade them for more pleasant sounds, and he didn’t give Pete the time to make another remark. “Want me to touch you?”

“You’re asking the dumbest questions today,” Pete scoffed, “fuck, Patrick, _please_ , touch me!”

 

He arched his back as if to underline his words, grinding closer to Patrick, who took Pete’s cock into his hand, rubbing his thumb over the head and keeping the shaft in a tight grip. It was enough for now to elicit a satisfied groan from Pete, but not enough to let him come. Patrick wanted to keep that for later.

 

They fell into a rhythm for a while, before Patrick stopped his movements, and pulled out. “Wanna change positions.”

He hesitated for a moment, but Pete just nodded. “Want me on your lap, riding your dick?”

“Yeah, I want that,” Patrick confirmed, the anticipation alone enough to make him shudder.

But he hesitated again, recalling how tense Pete had been, while the hooker already stood up, ready to adjust his position. “You need to move, Patrick,” he observed, and sighed when Patrick gave him a questioning look.

“Stop fucking pretending you’re going to hurt me,” Pete scowled annoyed, “I think I’m pretty good at what I’m doing. I know my limits, and I don’t need your concern.”

“If you say so.” Patrick bit his lip. He wasn’t sure why Pete seemed to be so bothered.

“Yes, I fucking say so.” Pete’s tone was stern, and the annoyed look lingered on his face for a few more seconds, before his usual grin replaced it. “Now, will you let me ride you cock, please?” He asked, annoyance traded for a low, sultry voice. He put one hand on his own cock, giving it slow, small strokes. Showing off. Patrick couldn’t deny he was enjoying the view. “Oh, it hurts, Patrick,” Pete whined. “First, you get me all worked up, make me want you, and then you keep making me wait!” With a pout, he extended his other hand towards Patrick. “Please, _I need you._ ”

 

There was no way Patrick could resist any longer. He took the outstretched hand and pulled Pete closer as he leaned back while Pete straddled his lap. He grabbed Patrick’s cock with one hand to hold it in place, then finally, took him in.

Pete took his time. He let himself slide down slowly, inch by inch, and then slowly, _agonizingly_ slowly, he started to move; and Patrick couldn’t help but let out a disgruntled sigh. It earned him a grin from Pete, who still didn’t move any faster.

Part of Patrick felt impatient, tempted to just grab Pete’s hips, maybe dig his fingers a little too hard into them (hard enough to leave _his_ mark on Pete’s skin, so that _his_ bruises would overshadow those of the other people who had bought this body), force his way into Pete with one brutal motion and make him move to Patrick’s pace, harder and faster.

It was as if Pete were teasing him, _testing_ him, and that damn knowing smile that Patrick hated, hated, _hated_ so much was back on his pretty lips. Oh, it would be so easy to wipe it off and replace it with a whimper of pain and pleasure and Patrick’s name.

No, he wouldn’t let the hooker win again, and he wouldn’t let that nasty part of himself take over again, too, he wouldn’t, he _wouldn’t –_

 

Patrick grit his teeth, but held back. “Fuck, Pete, come on,” he just said, his hands gripping into Pete’s hips a little tighter, but not forcing him to move, “you can do better than that.”

Pete snickered, and looked at Patrick with lascivious eyes. “Oh, I promise I’ll be the best for you, Patrick,” he cooed, “I’ll be the best slut ever, just the way you like it, right? A naughty hooker, a filthy whore –”

“Stop it.” The words came out harsher than Patrick had intended, and his request earned him a surprised look. “Don’t – don’t say things like that.” 

Pete hesitated, and stopped in his movements. “I thought –“

“Just don’t.” Patrick shook his head, and bit his lip to stop himself from blurting out a pathetic chant of please, _please stop, don’t, please_ –

 

Pete shrugged. “Fine.”

There were other things Patrick wanted to say – _please stop, Pete, you deserve better than that, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry –_

 

But it was soon forgotten when the cocky expression took over Pete’s face again, and he started to move for real. Patrick pressed his head against Pete’s chest, and words were traded for whimpers, doubts or objections replaced with want, want, the need for more, the need for Pete, _Pete_ –

 

“Well, then,” he heard Pete say, “do you want me to show how much of a _good boy_ I can be?”

“Yes, I want,” Patrick replied, ashamed of how needy he sounded, but unable to keep the desperation and excitement out of his voice. “Fuck, yes, I want you to show me!”

“May I?” Pete’s hands hovered over Patrick’s shoulders, but he seemed unsure whether his client would approve of it or not. “I kind of need to hold on to something to keep my balance.”

“Just do whatever,” Patrick groaned in response, past the point of caring what other personal boundaries needed to be crossed right now.

Pete lay his arms around Patrick’s shoulders, a hesitant, almost shy touch that sent a shiver through Patrick. Pete was close, too close, his chest pressed against Patrick’s and his legs digging into Patrick’s thighs, and now, Pete’s arms pressed closer against Patrick’s shoulders as he pushed back against his cock, and maybe this was turning into a bad idea, _no, it had never been a good idea to begin with_ –

All doubts faded once Pete rolled his hips, one last slow and teasing movement before he finally, finally increased his speed, and Patrick bit his lip, unwilling to let out more of the undignified moans bubbling inside him.

 

Pete setting his own pace had a certain appeal to it. Even though Patrick had never been this passive with Pete before, had usually preferred to fuck him in positions where he had more control over the pace and was the dominant one, he couldn’t help but find some of his usual pleasure in this unusual position. After all, it was still _him_ that had caused Pete’s arousal, and it was _his_ cock that Pete was so desperately grinding against.

Seeing Pete come undone while he was riding his dick, feeling Pete press harder against his cock and pushing it as deep inside of him as possible, hearing all the trembling groans and whines escaping his pretty mouth – it was so good, too good, and Patrick felt that he wouldn’t last much longer.

Patrick’s hand traced upwards from Pete’s hips to his ribcage, feeling soft skin and hard bones, before he slid down again and took Pete’s cock into his right hand. He heard Pete inhale sharply, and a low whimper escaping from his throat.

“Fuck, Patrick,” he moaned, his voice trembling, but the well-trained words falling out of his mouth with no problem, “please, I’ve been such a good boy, will you let me come?”

Patrick couldn’t reply, too focused on not coming himself, too concentrated on matching the pace of his hand to Pete’s rhythm, too entranced by Pete’s honey-sweet voice.

“So close, please, Patrick, just a little more, more!”

Pete clung closer to him, arms still slung around his shoulders and Patrick could feel Pete’s fingers clutching into his skin, something Patrick usually wouldn’t have tolerated, and certainly wouldn’t have allowed himself to enjoy so much.

 

But strangely, seeing the hooker forget himself, forget rules and boundaries (and maybe, just for a moment, forget he was a _hooker_ , forget that Patrick was a _client_ ), gave Patrick a much more satisfying feeling than having him obey.

 

Patrick knew there was no way could last much longer; he could feel everything inside him tense up. He tried to motion Pete to slow down.

“I’m close,” was all Patrick managed to bring out, “Pete, you need to – ah, Pete, I –“

But there was Pete’s cock in his hand and Pete’s tightness embracing his own dick, Pete’s hips still grinding against him, Pete’s hands still on his back, Pete’s musky scent all around him, Pete’s words and moans mixed with the obscene sounds of flesh against flesh, there was Pete, Pete, _Pete_ –

 

It was no use. A wave of heat and pleasure ran through Patrick as he came, pressing Pete closer to him and moaning muffled sounds against his skin.

Just a few moments later, through the haze of his fading orgasm, he could feel Pete shiver, tighten up and clench down around him as he came. Patrick could hear him let out the usual last whimper that accompanied his climax, so sweet and so addictive, and so damn satisfying.

Pete stopped his movements, and the world seemed to stop spinning as well.

Patrick felt boneless, breathless, and for a moment, he could forget everything else. Nothing on his mind anymore but the darkness behind his closed eyelids, and Pete still close to him, hot and sweaty, and feeling so good in his arms.

 

He could hear Pete mumble something, but his mind was unable to make sense of whatever he was saying. Patrick wanted to relish in the warm, sated feeling in his body for a little longer, he didn’t want to go back to coldness of the real world, didn’t want to focus on anything else.

“Patrick.”

A hand firmly clutching his shoulder brought him back into reality. _Pete’s_ hand; Patrick tensed up at the unexpected contact and immediately, Pete withdrew his hand.

“Patrick,” Pete repeated in a whisper, but with a stern voice, “you need to let go of me.”

It was only now Patrick realized he was still holding Pete close, head buried in his chest and arms slung around his hips, hands still digging into his flesh, making it unable for him to move. Embarrassed, he lifted his head and lowered his arms, allowing Pete to let Patrick’s already softening cock slide out of him, and to pull the used condom off.

Pete stood up and stumbled backwards, took a moment to stretch his limbs, and made his way to the kitchen to dispose of the used rubber.

 

Patrick closed his eyes again, leaned back, and let out a sigh. He was cold and sweaty at the same time, but he didn’t feel like moving at all. He opened them when he felt the couch dipping. Confused, he looked at Pete who knelt next to him now, an expectant look and a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

“You could keep me, you know,” Pete purred, “I can be all yours for the whole night, if you want.”

Patrick realized he wanted it. Oh, he _wanted_ so badly to keep Pete for himself and away from everyone else, away from every other terrible John and anyone else who would hurt him. But fear won out: fear of overstepping boundaries and letting this hooker any further into his life, fear of whatever troublesome questions or emotions this would cause.

Patrick _couldn’t_ allow this to happen, he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t –

He merely shook his head, afraid his mouth might betray him if he tried to speak, afraid that traitorous words would escape his lips; _stay, please, don’t get hurt, don’t leave me, please_ –

“Pity,” Pete sighed, and gave him a wink. “But think about it next time you drive down my street. You could have me all to yourself. Oh, I’d love to be all yours…” Patrick didn’t respond. Pete let out a small chuckle, and finally stood up. “Yours and _yours alone_ , Patrick,” he whispered one last time, sending his client one last smug smile, before making his way to the bathroom.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Patrick buried his head in his hands, trying to suppress the dangerous thoughts flooding his mind, as well as the tears stinging in his eyes.

 

By the time Pete came back, Patrick had regained enough control over himself to clean himself and throw on some clothes.

“You will come back to _me_ , right?” Pete asked; puppy eyes paired with a smile, knowing exactly what his client liked to see, and asking a question to which both already knew the answer. “You won’t betray me with another hooker, will you?” he added, voice high-pitched and sickly sweet.

Somehow, it sounded less like questions, and more like a demand. Somehow, it sounded more like begging than all the rehearsed lines Pete had ever used for his client’s pleasure, and Patrick couldn’t figure out why.

“Please, Patrick?” Pete repeated, with pure mockery masking whatever he actually wanted to express.

And Patrick didn’t want to think about the many, many other Johns that had undoubtedly heard the same words, maybe would hear them tonight even, because Pete would go back to the usual street corner to be picked up by the next stranger, a thought that made Patrick cringe. A thought that made him want to revoke his former decision, made him want to hold Pete back _–  no, fuck, this is not how it’s supposed to be_.

 

Pete wasn’t supposed to rule his life, wasn’t supposed to give commands, wasn’t supposed to hold any power over him. Pete wasn’t supposed to be in control. But Patrick could feel the façade between them crack more and more, and Patrick could see a human being in there, behind the hooker, who had his own wants and needs. But he knew Pete could see him through these cracks, too, and was working his way through to the human Patrick who wasn’t just his client, who wanted to have Pete in that real, warm way. The human who needed and craved this other human being, and not the cold facade. Already, that hunger poisoned his mind and infected his thoughts. It made him forget who Pete was supposed to be ( _a prostitute, a product, a no one_ ), and made him yearn for all the things Pete was never meant to be to him –

Panic crept into Patrick’s mind. Pete wasn’t supposed to be more than a hooker to him. He had put Pete into a neat little corner of his mind, and firmly restricted his thoughts and emotions for him.

_Anonymous hooker with whom I exchange sexual interactions for money. No more, no less._

Pete wasn’t supposed to be more. Pete wasn’t supposed to be… real. _Pete wasn’t supposed to matter._

Except, he was, and he did, more and more. Patrick knew that at some point, a door had been opened that couldn’t be closed anymore; should have never been opened in the first place.

And whatever lay behind it filled Patrick with nothing but fear.

 

“Just _go_ ,” Patrick whispered, and much to his dismay, it sounded more like pitiful and weak than every _please_ Pete had ever uttered.

Pete shrugged, but didn’t seem to be disappointed by his client’s words at all. He leaned closer and brought his mouth to Patrick’s ear, just distant enough not to provoke him to draw away, but close enough that Patrick could feel his breath, smell the faint scent of sweat and sex and _Pete_. Just close enough that all Patrick would have to do is reach out his hand to grab him, hold him back, beg him not to go meet yet another terrible John like him (and he knew, he _knew_ all of them were terrible, _because I am one of them – terrible, dirty, despicable, disgusting; please, don’t go –_ )

 

“See you, Patrick.”

 

Of course, Patrick didn’t reach for Pete’s hand; he just nodded, and the hooker slammed the door shut behind him, disappeared back into the night; and everything about Pete was out of reach for Patrick again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again so much for reading!~  
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a comment. I'm still kind of a newbie and I never managed to write such a long ongoing work, so this is all new territory for me. 
> 
> Next chapter will be dealing with Pete's POV again!


	5. Something Is Squeezing My Skull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brings you an insight into Pete's POV, and tons of angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Michelle for being such a patient beta reader, and for adding in a bit more variety of swear words, lol  
> Chapter title from a Morrissey song
> 
> mentions of drugs, and slight violence?

Pete was awoken by the voice of a stranger.

 

It took him a while to make sense of what he was hearing. Sleep still ruled his brain, heavy clouds dimming the harsh reality. The words directed at him all mashed together into meaningless syllables. For a few terrifyingly long seconds, Pete didn’t know where he was, who was talking to him, _what is happening_ –

 A hand grabbed his shoulder. It wasn’t a harsh gesture, but it was a firm grip, enough to yank him back into semi-consciousness, and to send a shiver through his body. Alarmed, Pete jolted up, desperately trying to regain his senses while pushing the intruder away, _away from me_ –

 

“You need to leave.”

 

Puzzled, Pete tried to find the source of this proclamation, and his gaze finally focused on the face of a young woman staring at him. The hand on his shoulder also belonged to her, and was now used to slightly shake him again, in another attempt to get a response.

 

“Are you deaf?” A pause. “Are you on something?” A sigh. “Come on, get out of here.”

 

Pete opened his mouth, but his mind was blank. A wave of panic flooded him as he sat there, speechless. He still didn’t even know where he was, let alone what to say right now. His hands fisted into something soft – a blanket, and he noticed he was sitting in a bed that wasn’t his, surrounded by rumpled sheets, unfamiliar walls, and an unknown face in front of him.

Slowly, Pete’s confused brain was able to connect the dots, and make sense of where he was.

Yet another anonymous motel room. Sometimes, a John was nice enough to pay until the next morning, and leave the room to him. Pete never declined, though he never had any intention to stay even when he was done working for the night. He never slept when he was with a client _ever,_ for a million obvious reasons, but the idea of sleeping in a strange place alone usually did even more for his insomnia than the idea of being completely defenseless with some guy he didn’t know from Adam. Being alone in an anonymous room like this, he had nothing that was familiar to comfort him except the voices chattering away in his head.

 Not that he didn’t have a place to stay. It wasn’t necessarily home, but it was _his_ place. He didn’t need to depend on the kindness of strangers.

 

But yesterday, he had just been so, so tired, exhaustion causing every bone in his body to ache, to long for rest, for escape. His mind lulled him in with the promise of sweet, sweet relief, _just this once_ , and the sweet little pills he knew would let him sink into safe haven of sleep had been just so easy to swallow.

Anger flooded Pete, replacing the former sense of panic. He hated showing such weakness, hated having to give in. His brain wasn’t to be trusted; he should have known better.

 

“I won’t say it again. Get the hell out of here.”

 

The woman gripped his shoulder even more tightly, her nails digging into his skin. Judging by her uniform, she was one of the employees; probably the maid. It was only now Pete realized he was still naked.

 

“’m sorry,” Pete finally managed to blurt out in a voice still raw from sleep. “I’ll go.”

He felt a blush burning on his face. He wasn’t embarrassed to be naked in front of a stranger (he had abandoned that feeling a long, long time ago), but he was embarrassed that she had caught him when he was so vulnerable.

Being a hooker on the corner of an anonymous street at night was one thing; _but being the disoriented, dislodged, used whore that I am in the harsh, unforgiving daylight –– that’s pathetic_. Pete’s whole existence felt out of place, something shameful, humiliating. He was something to be hidden, until nighttime came again and made it appropriate for people like him to show their faces again.

 

“You have ten minutes. Make sure management doesn’t see you.”

 

The young woman disappeared in a hurry, leaving behind a disheveled Pete on an unmade bed, just another fragment of the ruins of last night.

His clothes were strewn all over the place. He hastily put them back on, cringing at the memory of what landed his belongings in such disarray. Only now did he remember his bag--where the hell was it? Panic had his heartbeat pounding in his ears for what seemed like an eternity until his gaze fell on the missing object. Pete checked inside, and to his relief, neither money nor anything else seemed to be missing. He dragged it with him into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

With a sigh, he dropped the bag to the floor, and took a quick look around. The room was sparse,  old, and a little run-down, but everything appeared to be relatively clean and functional, which was more than Pete would dare to ask for, if he had standards to begin with.

He turned on the faucet and washed his hands and face with the small, cheap piece of soap provided. He watched the water go down the drain and looked up into the mirror with another heavy sigh.

 

A rough night’s sleep used to leave less impact on him, but nowadays a tired-looking face greeted him in the mirror. There were bags under his hazel eyes, which seemed small and old without eyeliner ringing them. The skin that stretched over his bones felt paper-thin, too tight, and he felt the dawn of a familiar itch underneath it. It was that same restless, nagging sensation that would leave him fidgety and irritable until he did something stupid to to burn it off, like fuck or pop some pills or just jump off something high. Anything to distract himself from his own mind.

Pete sighed, and ran a hand through his dark, thick, messy hair, which, thankfully, so far had been spared the unavoidable curse of turning gray. He had contemplated letting it grow out again, but it took too much effort to maintain. Eyeliner and tight clothes would have to do the job of hiding him, or more importantly, hiding the small but undeniable cracks in his façade. He grabbed the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white, averting his gaze from the harsh image of reality portrayed in the mirror. The uncomfortable, but irrefutable truth it showed.

 

Oh, sure, Pete was still _young_.

_But how long will I be young enough?_

 

Time was ticking, and he didn’t know what happened once time was up for him. Boys like Brendon would take over, until they, too, were inevitably replaced by another generation of anonymous, soon-forgotten faces.

And the leftovers like himself, _too old, too used up, too fucked out, nothing but hollow shells and empty husks_ – Pete didn’t even want to think about what happened to failures like him. He didn’t want to think, _didn’t want to think, didn’t –_

Luckily, he knew exactly how to silence the unwanted thoughts in his head.

Pete didn’t want to reminisce about how often over the (many, too many) years he had woken up in an unknown place that wasn’t his; swallowing pills in someone else’s bathroom after a night of sex with a stranger, sometimes throwing up last night’s drinks, vomiting the words inside of him into the toilet instead of scribbling them on paper.

_I guess the only difference is that at one point, I was smart enough to take money for it_ , Pete thought briefly, a joyless grin stretching over his face.

 

Once, it had been a lifestyle of excess and parties. Something he had craved, something he had willingly participated in, something he and his now-forgotten friends had loved to do for fun. And Pete had been damn good at having fun. He always knew how to get what he wanted, be it a warm body to take home with him, or pills that made him forget, sometimes made him feel better, sometimes made everything louder and exciting, and _always_ made reality a little more bearable.

He used to be all bright smiles and even brighter hopes, convinced that this glamorous world belonged to him and him alone. It would bend to his will one day, and he would shout his words from the highest rooftops for everyone to hear, willing or not. Pete knew, he was convinced, he felt in his bones that he had so much to offer, and surely one day, everyone else would realize it, too. Until then, he kept screaming, into mics and cheering crowds, on stage, in clubs, and inside his head whenever everything became just a little too much.

Naturally, when the day came that money was tight (as it always did with tortured artists), the idea of exchanging sex for money had seemed so harmless and easy. Pete knew sex, he was damn good at it, and he was even better at lying. It was easy to find some half-drunk idiot at the bar who was past the point of caring what he spent money on.

 

At the time, Pete was convinced it was _just one night_.

 

_Just one night_ turned into _one more time, just one more time_ . Once the inhibition was off, once he’d taken that first step into this dark territory, each step further had been all the more natural. _The first time always hurts, but after that, it just gets easier._

 

It’d been a cinch to find another semi-intoxicated customer at the next bar, and then another. All too soon, Pete knew where to go, which streets to walk, what to wear and what to say. He could smile, he could perform like a good little actor, and whenever he needed to, he could forget.

He liked that he made his own hours and set his own rules (not always, but _mostly_ , which was better than nothing, right?), and he earned more money than at some crappy regular part-time job.

Pete hadn’t thought much about it, because it was just supposed to be temporary, holding him over until he could force the world to listen to him and what he had to say. Until then, prostitution was just a means to an end. Then, when he saw what people were willing to pay for a three-minute blowjob in an alley, he could only feel sorry for these jerks. Sure, he was selling his body, but they were selling theirs, too, just at a different price. It was kind of pathetic, really, and he felt no remorse for flashing a fake smile and fake moans in exchange for some very real cash.

Idiots, all of them.

Sure, occasionally, there was a particularly bad costumer, a particularly terrible experience. Money and sex just bring out the worst in some people, including Pete, sometimes. Maybe this wasn’t the dream job, but it paid in cash under the table, and he was good at it. It would do for now.

 

Just for now. Just one more. He could stop anytime he wanted, right? It was the exact same lie he told himself whenever he popped another pill in his mouth.

 

Pete couldn’t even pinpoint exactly when it all started to go wrong, when he started to exchange sex for money on a _regular_ basis, when the _exception_ became the rule, and people started to care for only the smoothly-told lies and dirty sounds from his mouth, not his actual words buzzing in his brain.

Slowly, like the frog in the pot of water, he had crossed more and more lines, let himself get sucked into this life, and the temperature just kept creeping upward. Suddenly, before he knew it, the burner was on high, the water was boiling, and he was just sitting there being liquefied without even realizing it.

_Just to make ends meet, just to pay rent, just to keep my head above water until my next project, just until –_

Except he clearly wasn’t above water anymore, was he? One day, he looked around and realized that opportunity had stopped knocking at his door, his bands had all fallen apart, and the world had moved on without him. Pete found himself stranded in an uncaring city, among indifferent strangers, with nothing but worthless words and foolish dreams. With nothing but _failure_ , and no way out.

 

Sometimes, he thought about just quitting. Going back into a normal life, where money was made with honest work. Where sex wasn’t currency, a weapon, or a barrier; in fact, sex wasn’t a means to any end because it _was_ an end, a goal, something you wanted to share. Not something you used to get something else, somewhere else. It was a nice thought, and comforting to know that such a world existed, even though Pete knew he wasn’t going to join it anytime soon. Still, having the option, no matter how hard the struggle, no matter how unrealistic it was, still felt reassuring.

 

Pete put the pill in his mouth, and washed it down with the stale-tasting water from the faucet. Then followed another one, and even though he knew the effects couldn’t be felt yet, he felt relieved anyway. The fog in his head would soon clear, pain and unpleasant words and thoughts would soon be forgotten.

 

As it turned out, those things could be bought with money if one knew the right kind of wrong people. Artificial happiness came with a price tag, sure, but Pete _needed_ them. It wasn’t _his_ fault his brain was fucked up, and he deserved some peace-inducing pharmaceuticals. There was no other way for him to calm his heart, that  was always beating fast, too fast, wasting away his life too soon. No other way to calm his mind, that was constantly racing with a million unwanted thoughts. No other way to bear a reality that was always too loud, distorted, ugly and painful. Without a little help (and more and more help, over time), Pete’s body simply refused to perform the simple act of falling asleep. 

That was pretty much the only part of his life not traded for lies. He just handed over the cash, and there were no questions, no concerns, no doctor looking at him with bored eyes, knowing full well that Pete was only there to confirm that yes, he was still a fuck-up and yes, he would still have to be stuffed with meds, thank you very much.  
He was just a customer (a welcome role reversal), and for once, no one had to pretend. It was refreshing, really.

 

Sometimes, he still felt the itch to swallow a couple more pills, just because he could. Just to forget for a little longer; forever, maybe. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Now, though, death didn’t seem as attractive anymore. _Having the power to die_ gave Pete more satisfaction than just plain dying. It was having the loaded gun in his hand, but not yet holding it against his temple. It was standing on a ledge, knowing he could jump whenever he felt like it. Holding these pills in his hands, walking the fine line between death and life, it felt powerful. It felt like freedom. Pete was God, and today, once more he graciously granted himself the gift of living.

 

As the last familiar hint of artificial taste lingered on his tongue, pieces of a certain conversation came up in Pete’s mind. Drugs, drugs... _who had asked me about drugs recently?_

He tried his best to remember, but he couldn’t. The image surfaced in his mind just enough to taunt him, but each time Pete tried to grab it, the memory vanished again. Pete knew it happened, knew it was real, he _knew_ , he could recall the anger he had felt, and he vaguely recalled blue eyes that cowardly averted his own, _who was it?_ –

Pete let out a frustrated sigh, and tried his best to push back the panic that once more spread through his body. Reality slipped away from his grip, ran through his fingers like sand, and he just couldn’t hold on. His own goddamn mind was playing tricks on him again.

For now, it was no use, and Pete tried to calm himself by reminding him of the medication on its way into his bloodstream. Hopefully soon, _please, please, please,_ it would stop the madness for a while. It could anchor him back to reality, and hopefully, _please, please, please_ paint it in a much more pleasing light. It would dull any nasty, bitter thoughts and any painful sensation in his body. The medication would finally calm him down. Peace, serenity, and silence, _silence, silence._

One last splash of water on his face, and then Pete left the bathroom.

 

It only now dawned on Pete how nice the hotel’s employee had been to him. She could have easily ratted him out, and forced him to pay for the room after he had overstayed his welcome. She could have let the manager drag his semi-conscious, naked body to the dirty streets, or she could have stolen all his money.

So, the day was starting off better than he originally thought.

He almost felt kind of sorry for the girl. She’d have to clean up the filth of last night’s perverts who had safely retreated into the shelter of a normal life, with spouses and boring jobs. They all brought their baggage and their dirt into cheap hotels such as this, using someone like Pete to get rid of it, and left the aftermath to be cleaned up by someone like her.

She was a fool to let him go so easily. Was it out of pity? Pete scoffed; he didn’t need her pity, and certainly didn’t deserve it. Maybe she should’ve just beaten him into a bloody pulp and left him to die. Nobody would have cared, and the planet would be rid of one more useless existence.

Still, he left her a big tip as a thank you and plea for forgiveness (and in the hopes that if she ever found him again like this, she’d remember that he would pay well for her silence). He knew this wouldn’t be the last time he came to this motel, and it was better to be on good terms with the people working there.

 

Pete stumbled out of the building. He looked up to the sky, but the gray clouds gave no indication of the time. It took him a moment until he had regained his sense of orientation and could locate where he was. He lit his first cigarette of the day as he looked around. Not that the street had any outstanding buildings or anything to identify itself, but Pete knew all these too-innocent, anonymous looking streets too well.

He sighed, wishing he had a jacket, or anything to conceal himself. In the light of the day, yesterday’s too-tight jeans and flimsy low-cut shirt (both clearly not an appropriate ensemble for a cloudy day in the dawn of autumn) looked ridiculous. Wrong. _Stupid. Out of place. Just like me, so they fit me quite well._

Pete let out a laugh, but no one was there to hear it, and the street had no answers to give.

 

After a mercifully short and uneventful walk, Pete arrived at his place, exhaustion and soreness still haunting him. It wasn’t anything great, but it was his place, and it felt safe. The landlord never asked questions, didn’t even bat an eyelash when Pete paid him in crumpled, gross-looking dollar bills. And luckily, as Pete had found out when he had been short on rent, the guy generously accepted blowjobs as payment. Sometimes, depending on how far behind he was, he had to work a little harder.

Pete wasn’t complaining. If that shithead really thought a quick blowjob or an even quicker fuck (much to Pete’s amusement and relief, the man didn’t have much stamina) was worth letting a prostitute stay in his building one more month, well, it was what it was. Pete would shut his mouth, hold back his honest opinion, and only open his mouth long enough to moan and fake his interest, or get it filled with cock. Just another job, no big deal.

Everything in this place reeked of destitution, of desperation. A last resort for lost boys. From the broken windows to the doors that didn’t lock right to the shared bathroom on each floor to the slimy grin his landlord always wore, Pete knew the guy traded in favors and empty promises, on using not just Pete, but probably a lot of his tenants, however he saw fit. He profited from their hopelessness.

Whatever. It was none of Pete’s business how the guy managed his estate. He was glad he even had a place to stay, unlike other people. Unlike someone else. Unlike a stupid little boy with huge, sad eyes, who still foolishly thought Pete didn’t ruin everything he touched. Who still thought it was a good idea to be involved with someone like Pete, as if he deserved friendship or trust –

Pete pushed the thought aside, and threw his backpack in the corner. He decided to take a shower, relieved he could finally cleanse himself from yesterday’s events and today’s unwanted thoughts.

 

Afterwards, he felt a little more like himself again. He got out of the bathroom, grabbed the cleanest looking shirt and underwear, and with a grunt, he let himself fall down on the mattress. His eyelids felt heavy, but Pete knew that sleep wouldn’t bless him anytime soon. He might as well stay awake, and with all his remaining concentration, he tried to drag back out the memory that had refused to resurface back in the motel bathroom.

He closed his eyes, and tried to focus. _Drugs, drugs..._ Blue eyes and amber liquor in a glass held by shaking hands... He knew the guy who had asked him, _he knew him_ . It was a client, one of his regulars even. Stupid bright eyes and hesitant words leaving his stupid fucking pink, full lips that he wouldn’t allow Pete to kiss, because he thought he was _so much better_ than a hooker despite being nothing but a pathetic, lonely John, _fuck, who, who_ –

_Right_ , Pete finally recalled with a joyless laughter, _Patrick. It was Patrick_.

 

Relief flooded him – his brain wasn’t completely useless yet. He remembered. It was _Patrick._

The feeling was soon replaced by anger, as more of the memory flashed before his inner eye. He recalled bits and pieces or their conversation. _Healthy people don’t carry loads of pills in their backpacks_.

 

What an asshole, really. Pete wasn’t sure if Patrick was just naïve, or if he really didn’t care that he was being mean. Either way, Pete wished he hadn’t asked. He liked it better when Patrick kept his lovely mouth shut.

The barbs some clients threw at him usually didn’t even faze him. Pete was past getting hurt by words. They were always the same, and after the millionth time, even the cleverest variation of the same insult lost its edge. But the questions bothered him. People had always wanted the illusion of him, even back when that illusion was a poet instead of a hooker. It was never about his real self, the guy that he himself barely even knew anymore. Frankly, though, he liked it much better that way.

Questions meant trouble. Silence, illusions, hiding, that was safer.

His clients, _including Patrick_ , weren’t supposed to question the wavering mirage that Pete offered. He didn’t want to see what lay behind Patrick’s front, either. It was easier to see him as just another faceless John. Not as someone who cares, someone who had emotions, all the things Pete didn’t want to deal with.

 More memories played before his inner eye, and a certain voice filled his ears.

 

_You don’t take any drugs, do you? What about any illnesses?_

 

The same old questions. Patrick wasn’t even clever enough to come up with anything original. Pete hadn’t expected him to have the guts to address the pills, but otherwise, it was the same boring and disappointing conversation as always.

Except... _Why haven’t I given him the same non-answers I give everyone else?_

Pete remembered his words, and he remembered a strange feeling of anger reserved just for Patrick. After all the time that he hadn’t bothered to ask questions, had closed his eyes to the bruises and everything else, played it safe, suddenly, _now_ he was oh so concerned with Pete’s well-being? After he had refused to buy Pete’s kisses, Patrick expected to be able to afford Pete’s truths? Sex for sale wasn’t enough, now? Pete had to throw in his soul for a bargain-basement price as well?

_Yeah, that must be it_ , Pete thought to himself. He was no fool, he had noticed the looks his client had sent him. He saw the guilt, the hefty conscience, and the desperation in Patrick’s eyes.

 

Before, he had just assumed that Patrick thought he was better than Pete. Superior to him. Thought Pete was _a filthy whore, a dirty hooker, a greedy slut_ , and all the other words he hadn’t wanted Pete to repeat last time. Pete had assumed that Patrick didn’t want to be touched by him simply because he thought Pete was dirty, would stain him, or whatever other twisted reason.

Now that he thought about it, though, the unusual way Patrick had relished in touching him the last time, had even accepted Pete’s own gestures, and the desperate way he had clung close, close, and closer – no, there was something else. The harsh tone when he had forbidden Pete from saying all those nasty things he used to like so much, how he had lingered just a little too long with his lips so close over Pete’s mouth, and how it had obviously taken all his remaining self-restraint not to close that distance or ask Pete to stay. No, there was something that Patrick was desperately trying to hide, or hide _from_ , and something that Pete wasn’t sure he wanted to know. After all, he’d been doing a good deal of hiding, too.

Pete had been wrong about him, and if there was one thing Pete didn’t like, it was being wrong about his clients. Oh, yes, Patrick definitely wanted him, and Pete had made sure of that. How else do you ensure return business? What he wasn’t sure of, though, was whether he liked it anymore. Something about Patrick had changed. His fear, his power-mongering, his _using_ of Pete, that simple lust had morphed into _desire_. It wasn’t the same cold commerce that had always passed for human interaction between them, not anymore. Patrick had gotten warm, soft, even _hungry_ for more in a way that felt all wrong.   

This was supposed to be sex, just sex. To Pete, it was nothing but a fun little game to play – see how far he could push Patrick, see how far he could drag him down. Wake new desires in him, make him say reprehensible things, let him feel ashamed of himself. Make Patrick see what he wanted, something he could never get. Make Patrick believe he was in control, when really, just some stupid moans and lies where all it took to make him succumb to Pete’s temptations. Make that arrogant prick see who he really was: just some John, as messy and imperfect as the hooker he’d bought. Make Patrick feel as terrible, as worthless, as Pete felt. It was a petty act of revenge, really, as if the buyer’s demise could somehow make up for the seller’s failures.

 

Pete knew how to play this game, he knew how to win, and the role of the hooker was so easy and safe.

 

Patrick was supposed to lust after his body, yearn for his lies, crave the illusion that Pete sold him. Patrick could buy him, use him, toss him back, and then convince himself he was done slumming it. But Pete _owned_ him, made him come back for more. And like Pavlov’s dog, Patrick kept doing exactly that, over and over, running for that dinner bell with drool flying. Never learning.

Because this was Pete’s game, and they were playing to _his_ rules. Rules he sometimes changed to suit his own ends, to be sure, but rules all the same.

It had thrown Pete off when Patrick bought someone else. Patrick was supposed to want him, and _only him_. If Pete didn’t get to be free, neither did Patrick. When he came back, though, acting all kind and concerned, so different from before, it confused Pete even more.

 

Patrick was suddenly offsides, crossing lines he wasn’t meant to, breaking Pete’s rules. Breaking something in Pete, too. A tiny crack, but that was more than enough.

 

With anger, he recalled that Patrick had made him show _weakness_ , and that made Pete furious. He remembered his own stupid (so fucking stupid) admission of discomfort, the tension, the insecurity... the _failure_ , in front of a client, and in front of _this_ client. He didn’t even know why he hadn’t been better at pretending like he usually was. He made a living out of lies. Why, _why_ had he failed with Patrick? Just because Patrick suddenly cared about him (or decided to start acting like he did), that didn’t mean that Pete had to care about Patrick in return. And anyway, there was no reason to _trust_ Patrick. Trust was not part of this.

Pete groaned. What did all of this even matter? More words poured into his mind, more things Patrick had said that pushed the boundaries between them – _Pete, I don’t want to hurt you, Pete, Pete, Pete_ -

 

_Fuck, who the hell does Patrick even think he is?_

 

Patrick was _nothing_ , a nobody, a stranger, an interchangeable and meaningless John. He wasn’t someone who held enough power over Pete to hurt him, no John did. Sure, they could hurl their petty insults at him. Sure, they could try to humiliate him. Sure, they could yank his hair and dig their hands a little too deep into this skin, enough to leave bruises. But they couldn’t actually _hurt_ him. Pete had never allowed his clients to have this much of an impact on his life, ever, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start now.

 

They were called Johns because they were fucking anonymous. They meant nothing. They _were_ nothing.

 

Just because Patrick had been nice to him once, Pete wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting him. Patrick could get off on pretending he was someone special all he wanted, if this was his new power play, but it was just an illusion. He couldn’t hurt Pete. He didn’t have enough impact to cause emotions. He didn’t matter, _he didn’t matter_.

Still, Pete’s mind lingered a little longer on this guy. This client. This fucking _John_. He had to admit, there was something that made Patrick stand out.

 

Pete had seen all the various instruments littering his apartment, and had little doubt that Patrick played all of them, maybe even more. He had felt the slightly calloused skin on Patrick’s fingers, so similar to his own hands once. Patrick seemed like a perfectionist, someone who could master anything he wanted simply because he set his mind to it. Why the hell all his talent and success didn’t translate into his confidence, Pete had no clue. Clearly, he was good at what he did, and good enough to earn decent money (enough to afford the ridiculously overpriced apartment, enough to buy expensive alcohol, enough to pay Pete whatever he demanded – and more – without a second thought).

Maybe he didn’t have the huge stage, screaming audiences, and tabloid fame that Pete had once craved so much, but that didn’t seem like Patrick’s style anyway. But he had something to offer to the world, more than empty words and screams. More than fake moans and forgotten ambitions. More than Pete had to offer.

 

Patrick was young ( _younger than me_ , Pete couldn’t help but think with a hint of bitterness), talented, successful. _No, not only that,_ Pete decided, _but he is fucking lucky on top of that, too, to be doing something he cared about_. He was everything Pete wished he could be, but was _not_. That was what made him different, and made Pete care more about him than he should. As if that weren’t bad enough, Patrick’s stupid new attitude was throwing Pete off track, and into a territory he didn’t know. Didn’t feel safe in.

With his music and his words and his eyes, Patrick felt like missed opportunities, felt like the dreams Pete had buried a long time ago. He felt like hope, a dangerous and false sense of hope. And the looks he had sent Pete were filled with emotions from a long-forgotten life. But it wasn’t real, couldn’t possibly be real, and buying into it for even a second was ridiculous. This wasn’t some goddamned fairy tale.

What happened when Patrick got a glance behind Pete’s façade, only to see that there was nothing left? He’d be right back in the gutter for good, that’s what. That was what he’d been afraid of when it seemed Patrick had moved on to someone younger, slender, delicate, tainted, but not used up like Pete was.

 

Patrick provoked something inside him, nasty feelings of jealousy and hate and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and Pete wasn’t supposed to have any kind of emotion for any John, not even hate. That was giving in, and giving them too much power.

Pete gritted his teeth as a heavy feeling settled in his chest.

 If he couldn’t even be a proper _whore_ , what else would _a nobody, a failure, a pathetic creature like me_ do? There would be nothing left, absolutely nothing, _nothing, nothing_ –if Pete stopped pleasing him, Patrick could just shrug and throw him away. Could go get another hooker, or go marry some nice, clean, normal person and leave the dark part of his life in the past forever. Patrick could simply remind Pete that he was nothing but a worthless failure, nothing but disappointment behind the bright, playful smile and empty promises. Just a forgettable nobody.

 

What if Patrick had found someone younger, someone cuter, someone better, _better, better_ _– Am I not good enough? Please, I can be better, please_ –

 

_No, no, no._ Wrong thoughts, entirely wrong thoughts.

 

What was wrong with him? As if the situation with Brendon wasn’t enough, now even his clients were messing with his head.

Patrick made him vulnerable, he made him care, unnecessarily occupied his thoughts, and that frightened Pete more than he was willing to admit. He didn’t want to care for anyone, not himself, not the lost little hooker with the big brown eyes silently begging for his help, and certainly, not some John who was _nothing but a lucky bastard_.

And why? Since _when_ did Patrick make him feel anything? It was supposed to be the other way around.

It was _Patrick_ who was weak. _Patrick_ was the one who got off on buying sex from a hooker. Patrick was the one who was lonely, the one who drank a little too much to cope with reality. _Patrick_ had all these pathetic feelings he thought Pete wouldn’t notice. _Patrick_ was weak. _Not me_.  

 

Part of Pete warned him to stay the hell away from now on, because he meant danger. He meant emotions. What kind, Pete didn’t want to think about right now, but any would be too much. He shouldn’t be playing games like this. It was overstepping boundaries. It meant getting _involved_ , and that might end up costing both of them more than they could ever afford.

No. He wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t let Patrick win. He wouldn’t let some client mess with his head, or have power over him like that. Patrick was no one, just another John who bought himself a meaningless whore, and that should be all anyone ever got of Pete.

Patrick didn’t matter. Patrick couldn’t hurt him. _He can’t hurt me, can’t hurt me, can’t hurt me..._

 

With these thoughts on repeat, exhaustion took its toll on Pete’s body. He drifted off, and his mind fell into a semi-conscious state between sleep and wakefulness. It was unpleasant and more tiring than staying awake, but he felt too worn-out to fight it off.

 

Later that day, the dizzy state was replaced by an unnatural burst of energy, and Pete had nowhere to direct it. His mind was buzzing, but unable to focus on anything. After pacing his small room for a while, he finally made his way to the bathroom to get ready for work. It wasn’t like he could do much else.

For the second time today, Pete had to look closely into a mirror. Again, he didn’t like what he saw. The unnerving energy floating through his system didn’t quite reach his still tired-looking eyes, and everything just felt off. Wrong. Weak. Vulnerable. A creature that no one was supposed to see. Something that Pete desperately wanted to hide with makeup, smiles, or lies.

With a displeased hiss, he also noticed the last remaining shadow of the bruise that still clung to his collarbones, fading into the black thorns. The placement made it impossible to cover it up with make up, and he hated having to hide it under clothes. He hated how he had anything to hide in the first place.

Fucking biters, those were one of Pete’s least favorite kind of customers. He remembered the guy who caused it, remembered lying on the backseat of this John’s car, with no room right or left to wiggle his body away.

Pete pressed his finger into the yellow-tinted skin, watching his reflection in the mirror wince in anger. The memories of hard teeth, more sharp pain, suction and spit. He’d just gritted his teeth and put up with it, because by now, he knew better than to try fight someone who held him down, had the upper position, and his cock in Pete’s ass. It was usually much easier and less regrettable to just give in.

 

It was all the more rewarding when he snatched the guy’s wallet from his pants and emptied it when he’d been too caught up in the afterglow to notice.

 

Pete felt he’d had every right to claim damages. Besides, the fucking jerk had gotten what he wanted, Pete had what he wanted, and they were back to their own lives before the John could even notice the money was gone. Done and done.

It hadn’t been the first, or the last time he had made sure to pocket a little extra. Sometimes, he would just outright demand more money if his rules had been blatantly ignored, but usually, this way was just easier for everyone involved.

 

By now, Pete was pretty good as judging his clients. He knew which type of guys would pay if he called them out (the ones who were ashamed of themselves, the ones who extended their power trip to throwing money around, or the ones who just wanted him to shut up), he knew who wouldn’t notice him stealing (always the loud and overly confident ones; fools who mistook him for a poor, powerless little fucktoy), and he knew which ones would mean potential danger if he even tried to suggest they took more than agreed upon (the dangerous ones, clients Pete tried to avoid in the first place).

Pete lightly ran his thumb over the last hint of the bruise, and grinned at his reflection. That guy had been a fucking idiot. He had deserved a little reminder of that.

He painted himself a pretty new face, and then left the bathroom feeling slightly better. His body might end up naked, but at least, the rest of him would be concealed.

 

He grabbed his bag, and checked its contents. Enough lube to last him through another few days (not that everyone was kind enough to use much – or any – in the first place), enough medication to keep reality, and the insanity that always came with it, at bay. Not enough condoms; he tossed a few more in, along with tissues, a small water bottle, and more eyeliner.

Clothes were next. In the end, Pete settled for the usual tight pants, and a shirt that covered the last hint of yellow. He considered a jacket, but decided against it. He wanted to show off his tattoos, knowing they were one of his main selling points that always managed to attract attention. Plus, the cold would also keep his senses sharp.

Deep down, it felt a little bit like well-deserved punishment. It reminded him that _this is what you are, a whore, and this is what you get for it – this is what you deserve._ He shut the door behind him with a little too much force, knowing that was only the one of many doors he kept tightly closed and locked.

 

 

Pete arrived early at the street. Too early, probably; this time of the day, most Johns were too busy catching up with work, going out for drinks with their coworkers, kissing their kid goodnight, or whatever else regular people did before darkness swallowed the city completely.

Then again, it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be.

Brendon was already leaning against the wall, playing around with a lighter in his hand. When he noticed Pete approaching, he fiddled out his pack of cigarettes, and eagerly offered them to him along with the lighter. Pete felt slightly annoyed. Why did everyone keep thinking that his affections were for sale? Even this little brat treated his friendship like something that had to be bought. As if Pete was nothing but a whore even off the clock.

Pete took the cigarette anyway. _Maybe Brendon has a point_ , he thought to himself with a hollow grin.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he mumbled while trying to lit his cigarette, and Brendon gave him a genuine smile.

The boy was so eager to please, and his stupid, bright smile almost made Pete feel bad. He didn’t feel like he had earned it. It should be saved for someone more worthy, and Pete shuddered at the thought that Brendon didn’t have anyone else in his life who might be worth wasting a smile on. _And if I of all people am the best person this kid has, that’s truly saying something._

He shook his head. Whatever. If the kid was foolish enough to waste cigarettes and smiles on him, not his problem. Pete hadn’t asked for any of this.

 

The sharp feel of hot fumes hitting the back of his throat let Pete forget his worries for now. “You’re early today,” he remarked, before taking another drag. “Any luck so far?

Brendon nodded. “Already sucked a guy off, and gave a handjob. Quick and easy. Nothing special.”

 

The answer surprised Pete. _How long must the boy have been here to score twice already?_ An involuntary shudder ran through him.

“Don’t overwork yourself, kiddo. It’s doing more harm than good, believe me.” Pete tried to sound dismissive, and tried not to wonder why he even bothered.

Brendon gave him another smile, but this time, it looked forced, and didn’t reach his eyes. “But I have to work hard. I have to be good for _him_. Show him I’m worthy, that I deserve him.”

“Are you talking about your little lover?” Pete scoffed, not entirely sure if that was even the appropriate way to call that man. Apparently, sharing his name was also against whatever bizarre rules the guy had set up. “Is he feeding you this crap? Come on, you don’t really believe him, do you?” The kid couldn’t be serious. It was obvious that the guy he was staying with wasn’t worth the trouble. Brendon’s silence was answer enough, and as it went on, something heavy and unwelcome settled in Pete’s chest. It felt like concern, even worry for the dumb kid.

Yeah, he was naive, and he’d gotten himself trapped living with some domineering asshole. So what? That was nothing new. It happened to a lot of the newbies out here. Boys like Brendon with his wide eyes and smoldering hopes were a dime a dozen. Hell, everyone had their own boring problems, including Pete, and Brendon was no exception, either. _Why should it be my problem if he got himself into the classic no-win scenario? We all have to learn the hard way. Why should I be worried about him?_

Pete hated it when anyone worried about _him_. Damn, hadn’t he just gotten himself completely pissed off all over again thinking about Patrick starting with this shit? This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. He hated questions, hated concern, hated pity, and he suspected Brendon wouldn’t appreciate it, either.

 

Denial was so much more convenient. Living with the pain was better than admitting it to anyone and risking being totally pathetic. Believing lies was so much easier than facing the truth. And not trying for anything better meant no chance to fail, either.

 

Sudden anger overcame Pete. Anger with himself, anger with this goddamn kid, and anger at everyone else trying to get into his head (a place where even Pete himself didn’t want to go).

But in the last light of the day, Brendon’s face looked too young for all this sadness. His body was tense, and the self-deprecating words were nothing but flimsy armor to disguise a truth they both were aware of anyway. For once, Pete didn’t see a rival, someone to be afraid of – he just saw a confused little boy. Someone who might take his place one day, but for what price?

Considering how desperate for affection, even faked one, this poor boy must be – it was no wonder that someone could easily manipulate him. It wasn’t Brendon’s fault, none of this was. And what Pete hated the most was that yet again, he was thrown off his game. He didn’t know how to behave. Worse, it made him feel powerless, and that wasn’t a feeling Pete wanted to experience ever.

 

Hands clenched into fists, Pete forced himself to sound calm. “You deserve a lot better. Don’t let this guy fool you –“

“ _Shut up, Pete_.” Anger seemed to overtake Brendon for a moment, before fear won over his voice and expression. “Don’t – don’t say things like that. I need him, and he needs me. He _needs_ me. I mean something to him. Not like with those Johns. I can’t lose him. I already lost so much, Pete, I can’t lose this, either. He’s all I have left.”

“Brendon,” Pete started, but didn’t know what to say anymore. He was close to begging, though he wasn’t even sure what for. _As if it could make any difference_.

The world had stopped listening to him long ago, and now, his worthless words couldn’t even bring comfort to this kid. The nauseating feeling of powerlessness overcame him, together with the pesky feeling of insecurity, just like back with Patrick. Once again, he didn’t know what to do, and once again, someone else proved to have more influence on him than Pete had expected.

 

“It’s fine, Pete. Really, I’m fine, and it’s none of your business anyway, okay?” The words were harsh, but Brendon’s tone was wary, and his thin voice trembled slightly.

Pete didn’t bother to challenge this obvious lie. He knew there was no point. Brendon had shut him out, and barricaded himself behind his misguided beliefs. Pete was used to lies, but right now, they felt frustrating and just _wrong_.

 

He had wanted to stay out of it, had wanted the lies, though, right? That’s how it was supposed to be.

But now that he got them, all he could feel was desperation and disappointment. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like the right thing anymore, ignoring the kid’s pain and his problems. A sense of panic washed over Pete – what was going on? Why all these emotions all of the sudden? Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone? Patrick, Brendon – why did these fucking useless assholes and the pointless guilt and questions that came with them keep coming back, creeping into his mind, infecting his thoughts, and taking away his self-control? He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t asked for _any_ of this.

Brendon remained silent, and so did Pete, though he felt like their shared silence communicated more than words could. It whispered things in Pete’s ear that he didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to hear…

 

An unfamiliar car approached them. Pete shook his head, and reminded himself of what he was here for: _to be a hooker, and that’s it_.

When the window rolled down and revealed the driver, a shadow of recognition passed Pete’s mind. The guy behind the steering wheel eyed Brendon for a moment, then gave Pete a nod.

“You there,” the man said, and pointed at him. “C’mere.” 

Pete sent Brendon one last look he hoped was reassuring, then followed the command and came over. He really wasn’t in the mood, but what could he do? Money needed to be made. He managed to plaster his usual business smile on his face, and slid his hands in his pockets.

And upon close, he recognized the guy. _Shit_.

 

It was the fucking biter guy from last week, the John he had stolen from. Fear crept into Pete’s mind, and he desperately hoped it didn’t creep into his smile as well. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Had he been wrong? Had the guy noticed? Was he here to call him out? Why did everything go wrong today?

But the John’s disinterested half-smile revealed no hints of anger. “It’s my last night in town, and I want to make it a memorable one,” he said, too busy eyeing Pete’s body to properly look him in the eye. “Will you give a guy a good fuck?”

“But of course, sir,” Pete replied, glad that his voice remained steady and his smile as bright as ever, and glad that the guy seemed clueless. “I’ll give you the best goodbye from this city ever! You’re gonna miss this place when I’m done with you, for sure.”

The man laughed. “I like your attitude. And you were crazy hot last time.” He took out his wallet, and carelessly handled Pete the cash. “Enough to buy me a good time, right?”

Pete took a moment to discreetly count the money – the exact rate he had demanded last time from him. This was no coincidence. The guy clearly remembered him, and took him on purpose. _Yeah, for the purpose of fucking_ , Pete reminded himself. He also recalled the words “last night in town”, so afterwards, he’d never have to think about the guy again. That was a welcome change to certain other Johns, or fellow little hookers.

And if he disrespected his rules again, Pete knew where the guy kept his wallet.  

 

“Enough to buy you the best time you can have,” Pete assured his client with another smile and a wink.

“We’ll see about that. I hope you keep your promise, pretty boy. Now, get in the car.”

“Do you remember my rules, sir? Condoms are mandatory, always, and provided by me. I don’t –“

The dude waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know how this works. And I know exactly what my money’s buying tonight.”

 

Pete was a little annoyed that he had been interrupted, but didn’t bother reciting everything. This douche was just here for a standard fuck. Aside from the bite, Pete didn’t remember anything outstanding or troublesome about him.

“I may have a soft spot for bad boys, but I must remind you that I don’t want any marks left on my body. So, no biting, either. That’s not included in the price, and not for sale.”

To his relief and slight surprise, his client just shrugged. “Don’t worry,” he said carelessly. “It’s fine. I’ll only take what I paid for.”

“We have a deal then, sir,” Pete cooed, making sure to flash a big grin and lean in a little further.

The John nodded and impatiently gestured towards the passenger door. Pete sent one last look to Brendon, but the boy seemed to have regained his composure. He stuck out his tongue, and gave Pete a wink. Pete shook his head, and got in the backseat, despite the offer to ride shotgun. No need to pretend he’d end up anywhere else.

They drove off, and Pete used the opportunity to shove the cash into his backpack, and shove Brendon out of his mind. The John soon found a more discreet location to park his car, got out, and joined Pete in the back.

 

Just as Pete remembered, the guy wasn’t anything special. He just wanted a warm body, and made no pretense about it. It was no problem for Pete; it made the whole thing a lot easier. And when the guy motioned him to get on all fours, there wasn’t even the need to fake a smile anymore.

When he was done, he pulled out with a grunt. By the time Pete had pulled up his pants and turned around to grab his shirt, the guy had already pulled up his own pants and carelessly thrown the used condom aside. It was clear to Pete that they were done, so he sat up and moved to gather the rest of his things so he could get the fuck out of there.

 

To his surprise, though the guy pushed him back down. Before Pete could object, he straddled his hips and pinned his wrists down, something Pete couldn’t stand. The guy couldn’t possibly want to go again so soon, so what else could he want? None of the possibilities springing up in Pete’s mind were very reassuring.

Pete held up his calm, playful pretense, and went for a smile. He had no intention to let this escalate, or provoke the man. “If the gentleman wants anything else, he has to pay.”

The John shook his head, and tightened his grip around Pete’s wrists, bringing them up by his head. “I don’t think I got my money’s worth yet.”

A nauseating feeling dawned on Pete. “You got exactly what we agreed upon, sir.” He tried his best to sound neutral, and to keep the incoming sense of panic out of his expression. “I feel flattered that you like me so much, and I’d love to stay in your company, but everything has its price.”

 

The man narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you want your money? Well, why don’t you just _steal_ it then, huh?”

More panic flooded Pete, as realization set in. He tried another smile, and one last lie. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You think you’re pretty goddamned smart, huh? Think you can fool me?” The guy leaned down, and thereby increased the pressure on Pete’s wrists to a borderline painful point.

“I’m not trying to fool you. And I won’t steal anything. So, you can let go of me now.” At least, that wasn’t a lie. If the guy let go now, Pete would just leave. There was no reason to steal anything, no reason to be held down, no reason to be afraid.

“I told you, I didn’t get everything I paid for, you fucking slut.  You think you’re so clever, so goddamned special, don’t you, with your stupid little fucking ‘rules’? Well, I think I’ve paid for some more real estate on your pretty skin, since my other little reminder of who fucking _bought_ you is almost gone. You stole from me, you little shit, and I’m gonna take what you owe..”

 

Pete gritted his teeth, and he felt his face heat up in anger. He made little attempt to disguise it anymore. “No. I told you, this is not for sale.”

 

His objection only earned him a cynical laugh from the man. “You’re a _whore_. Selling your body to me is what you’re here for.”

“Fuck you, and fucking let go of me!” Pete tried to free his arms, but it was no use. The guy was taller and heavier than him – not by much, but enough to easily secure the advantage he already had.

 

“Don’t be so uncooperative. If I don’t get it from you, maybe I should just take your little friend, instead?”

“What?” Pete stopped struggling, and a new layer of fear settled in his brain. No, it couldn’t possibly be. “The hell are you talking about?”

“The cute piece of jailbait back on the corner, with those sad puppy-dog eyes. He looks pretty desperate. I bet he’d let me –“

 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” The traitorous words were out of his mouth before Pete had any time to overthink them.

 

“Awww, worried about your poor little friend?” The John raised his brows, and a sickening smile spread over his face.

“Fuck off. The kid has nothing to do with this. Leave him alone.” It was the wrong answer, Pete knew. He shouldn’t have let the John known he cared. Shouldn’t have shown weakness. He should have denied, pretended, lied, _since when am I so fucking weak?!_

 

But fuck, he couldn’t let Brendon get dragged into this. The boy had enough trouble already; he didn’t need to get involved with Pete’s problems, too. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that Pete had misjudged yet another client. This seemed to become a habit, but Pete didn’t have time to dwell on it..

 

“Will you be good now?” The John ran his thumb over Pete’s aching wrist, seemingly pleased when he wasn’t met with resistance again. “You’re gonna miss me, but don’t worry, I’ll leave you a souvenir, so you won’t forget about me.”

“Fuck you,” was all Pete said back. But he didn’t move, only turned his head away when the other man’s mouth came closer to his face. This fucking douchebag couldn’t hurt him, but he could hurt Brendon. Pete could deal with this, but the boy couldn’t. Fuck, Brendon was just some poor kid with too much on his plate already.

It didn’t matter what this man did to him, but no, Pete wouldn’t allow this bastard to try to hurt someone else. He was pissed beyond belief, but somehow even more afraid.The thought of Brendon getting into this asshole’s car, getting held down, getting hurt--no, even worse, _getting hurt because of me_ \--was unbearable. He couldn’t risk the boy’s well-being _, this is all my fault, after all, but Brendon doesn’t deserve to get hurt because of me._

 

The slick sound and the feeling of spit and a wet mouth against his skin let Pete shiver in disgust. But he kept his own mouth shut. If this bastard thought he could get him to beg and cry, he was wrong. This was just some meaningless, anonymous John who couldn’t hurt him.

He felt suction, teeth grazing over skin that would surely end up blooming into a hickey. One, two, three times, then they bit down hard, harder, and a little too hard. Pete couldn’t suppress a hiss, but he bit back everything else.

He could feel the grip on his wrists loosen a little, as the man seemed too caught up in the moment to care. It would have been easy to shake the stranger’s hands away from his own, land a good punch, and run for it. But Pete could sense that this guy was ruthless, used to getting what he wanted, _and if I don’t give it to him, someone else could suffer._

 

The John sat back up, and wiped his mouth. He eyed Pete with an infuriatingly self-satisfied expression as he admired his work. “So much prettier.” He ran his finger over the wet skin, and when he withdrew it, there was a hint of red on it. “I would have loved to give you something a little bigger, and a little more permanent, but who knows what kind of diseases whores like you carry.”

Pete almost pointed out that the John had bit down hard enough to draw blood anyway, but held back. He was exhausted now, all the fight gone from him, and he just wanted to get this over with. He didn’t even really feel the pain in his wrists or his neck anymore He was just so tired.

 

“See, it wasn’t that hard, was it? You should have just given me what I wanted in the first place, and saved yourself the hassle.”

 

_The hassle? You think it’s just a fucking hassle?_ Pete bit back on any smart remarks, but it seemed like the guy didn’t really expected that anyway. He had the same disinterested lazy smile on his face that he’d had back when he had picked Pete up. He was done with him, this time for real. Pete’s body and his resistance had been merely a fun little conquest, and it was over now.

 

“Get the hell out.” His voice was cold, indifferent, as he opened the door beside him and got out.

 

Pete was more than eager to comply. He grabbed his shirt and his backpack, and stumbled out. The John got back behind the steering wheel, but before he drove off, he rolled down the window. Pete’s hateful glare only evoked a slight hint of amusement, before the man spoke up in a sickly-sweet voice.

“Make sure your friend is safe, little hooker. The streets are dangerous. You’ll never know who you’ll meet out here, right?” With these words, he drove off. Once the sound of the car vanished as well, reality hit Pete again. _Make sure your friend is safe! Brendon. Fuck._

The pain in his body was replaced by the rush of adrenaline. What if the fuckface had lied? What if he still intended to hurt Brendon? Panic, anger, fear, all rising in his gullet and threatening to choke him. _Please let him be OK. Please, I can’t allow him to get hurt because of me._

 

There was no time to hesitate. He hastily put his shirt back on, and grabbed his bag.

 

Then he ran, accompanied by the thundering of his  heart, and the ongoing frantic chant in his head begging for Brendon to be safe.

 

Panting and gasping for air, Pete reached their usual corner. His gaze was unfocused, obstructed by black spots clouding the edge of his vision, and his legs felt like rubber, but none of that really registered with him. Where was the boy? Was he alright?, Did that fucking creep take him and hurt him?

 

Then he saw Brendon leaned against the wall, a slightly bored look on his face. No pain, no bruising, _safe, unharmed, he didn’t hurt him,_ **_I_ ** _didn’t hurt him_. Pete’s head was spinning, but all that mattered was that Brendon was alright.

His feet moved automatically, carrying him closer, and before he could properly gather his thoughts, Pete stood in front of him. The boy looked slightly surprised, as he had been too caught up in his own thoughts to notice anyone approaching. Before he could react further, Pete pulled him into a hug. Less of a comforting gesture, and more to make sure the boy was here, not an illusion, but really here, _safe_ , for now at least.

Brendon tensed up under the unexpected body contact, but after a moment, he relaxed. “Hey, everything okay?” He asked in a soft voice, his hand patting Pete’s back in a shy gesture. “Hey, Pete, um, you’re kinda scaring me.”

 

“Brendon,” Pete murmured, “are you alright?” He loosened his embrace, but kept his hands on the boy’s arms.

Brendon let out an amused chuckle. “Of course I’m alright. What’s gotten into you?” Then, his gaze fell on Pete’s collarbone, not quite hidden under his shirt. Pete instinctively followed Brendon’s eyes, only to notice a nasty blotch of red peeking out. He let go of the boy and took a step back, fumbling with his shirt. It didn’t help, and Brendon had already seen the damage, anyway.

“Pete, what the hell happened?” Brendon reached out, concern etched in his features, but Pete just moved further away. He wasn’t in the mood for explanations. There were more important things to worry about right now.

“Do you remember the John who just picked me up? Could you recognize him if you saw him again?”

Brendon blinked in confusion, then seemed to connect the dots. “Yeah, I think so.”

 

“Good. Because you are never going to get into his car, alright?” Pete clenched his hands into fists, and he felt that the anger and tension in his body also seeped into his voice.

“Pete –“

“Promise me, okay?” He felt slightly impatient, and desperate. He needed to know that Brendon would be OK, would not have to pay for his mistakes, would be spared an awful and humiliating encounter with this fucking predator. “You will not get into this man’s car. Say it!”

“I won’t!” Brendon held up his hands in defense, but he seemed to have grasped the severity behind the situation, and the seriousness behind Pete’s words. “I won’t. I promise!”

 

Ah, if only that were enough. Pete wanted more. He wanted Brendon to promise him he’d _always_ stay safe, away from all the dangerous people, away from Pete and the streets and whoever else could be hurting him. That would have been too much to ask for, though, and Pete knew it.

He still couldn’t help but hope that one day, he could get Brendon to promise him all of that, and have it not be a lie.

Now that he was at least reasonably sure that this certain John wouldn’t be able to trick the kid, relief crept in, but it was still mixed with some level of fear. Yes, he felt some assurance that Brendon was safe for now, but he also was beginning to realize just how much he cared about this boy. He couldn’t let Brendon get hurt by the asshole who had just hurt him. Fuck, he didn’t want him to get hurt by anyone. Pete felt too damaged already, used up, but there was still hope for Brendon.

 

The boy now lowered his arms, and eyed Pete’s injuries. He opened and closed his mouth again, then decided to speak up. “Does it hurt? Do you need to go to a hospital?” He looked at Pete with caution in his eyes, trying to guess if these questions would overstep boundaries, and only make the other one angry.

To Pete’s own surprise, it suddenly felt strangely comforting to know that someone cared. He shook his head. “It’s not that bad. He was just an aggressive asshole, not Jack the Ripper. Don’t worry.”

“But I do, Pete,” Brendon mumbled, and even though Pete’s first reaction was a flash of anger and embarrassment together with the words _shut up_ forming on his tongue, he just found himself sighing.

Everything was going wrong today. No, not only today. Things had been going wrong for a while now, with so many confusing thoughts and emotions slowly poisoning Pete’s psyche and messing with everything.

 

“You need to clean it up, at least.” Brendon send him a stubborn glance, and cautiously took one step forward.

“Fine,” Pete simply agreed, _because why not_. It wasn’t like this evening could get any more off track, and he simply didn’t have any energy left to argue. He went through his backpack, and found the water bottle and some tissues. This was not what he had anticipated they would be used for, but then again, nothing tonight had gone as planned.

 

His fingers grazed over the pill bottles. He bit the inside of his cheek against the temptation to down a couple, just to take the edge off, soothe the pain, put a nice, comforting fog over the violation, the fucking degradation Pete had just endured. How on Earth that motherfucker could possibly think that crossing someone’s personal boundaries, _dehumanizing_ him that way, was somehow equal to a few stolen dollars, Pete would never understand, even if he was just _a hooker, a whore, a slut_.

_Just one pill. Maybe two, but that’s all. That’d be OK, right?_

Pete reluctantly decided against it. Later, when the kid wasn’t looking, he’d pop a couple. He didn’t need Brendon worrying any more than he already did.  

 

“Let me,” the boy demanded, and held out his hand. Pete handed him both items, too tired to fight, and past the point of caring. Brendon was reluctant in his movements, as if he expected Pete to change his mind and jolt away from the touch. Pete relented, but the boy still kept a certain distance. He was a little clumsy and spilled more of the water over himself than anywhere else, but it didn’t take long to rub off the dried spit and the thankfully small amount of blood.

Brendon inspected the results, and seemed relieved. “You’re right,” he said with a sigh, “It doesn’t look too bad.”

“Told ya,” Pete said, finally feeling like he regained some of his composure. “It’s nothing. I can deal with it. That fucker couldn’t really hurt me. Just needed to make sure he can’t fool someone else again.”

Brendon nodded, but said nothing, and averted his eyes. As he did, Pete felt a shadow of doubt in what he’d just said darken his mind.

 

“I will be careful, I promise.” Brendon’s voice sounded thin. He took a step back, and leaned against the wall. “You don’t need to stay here. I can take care of myself. If you want to go home, leave.” He was trying to sound cool and indifferent, but Pete saw through that act easily. Hell, he’d practically invented it.

Pete laughed sharply, and shrugged. “Yeah, you’re not the only one who needs to make money, kiddo.” He leaned on the wall next to Brendon, and crossed his arms.

There seemed to be more words bubbling up inside the boy, but he remained silent, knowing that there was no denying of it. Pete was right, they both always needed more. More money, more time, more meds, more Johns.

 

“I won’t let that dude hurt me, okay?” Brendon said instead. “I won’t let any of them hurt me.”

 

Pete knew it was a lie. Someone _would_ end up hurting him, changing him. _Hardening_ him. Even then, though, hard didn’t mean impenetrable. Pete had learned that tonight, and many nights before. That was just the world they lived in. 

His mind protested, though, still turning every mental somersault he could think of to deny what he’d experienced, what he felt. _No, this is different. I’m older, more experienced, and stronger than this kid. I can handle myself. None of them can hurt me. Not that bastard just now, not Patrick, none of them_.

The thought was abandoned, as nothing but pure anger flooded Pete at the thought that there _was_ someone who did hurt Brendon. That miserable piece of shit he was staying with, who poisoned his mind and maybe left something worse than bruises on this boy. That man had hurt him, more than once, and would continue to do so.

Pete wasn’t sure what to do, if there even was anything he could do. But he wanted to try, at least. Offer what little he could. He was a fuck-up and a mess, but Brendon deserved better. He still had a chance. Pete wouldn’t ruin that.

 

“Brendon – I’m here, okay? I won’t leave you. I promise.” Once the words had left his mouth, a weird feeling settled in Pete’s chest.

The kid didn’t give an answer, but he nodded slightly, his head turned away. His hand found Pete’s, and Pete couldn’t help but give it a soft, reassuring squeeze. After a few seconds, Brendon withdrew his hand, and went through his pockets. He wordlessly offered Pete a cigarette and a shaky smile, and Pete couldn’t help but chuckle. He realized it wasn’t a cheap way to buy his affection, or a demeaning gesture – the boy just didn’t know what else to do. _Just like me_.

“Thanks, Brendon,” Pete grinned, and the boy seemed to regain some confidence. They went back to silence, gray smoke now filling the air instead of words.

 

Everything seemed to be back to normal, but Pete knew there had been a shift. Another crack in the walls of his mind. So far, he had kept Patrick at bay, or so he chose to believe, but Brendon had breached his boundaries, once and for all. And strangely enough, Pete felt no remorse.

This was a step in a new direction, unknown territory. Pete wasn’t sure if it was the right way, if there even was such a thing for him anymore. He wasn’t sure if he could handle it, but he was determined to keep his promise to the boy as best he could. For the first time in a while, he felt like he wasn’t fucking up, like he was trying to be better. Armed with that knowledge, he figured he could face whatever was coming. Even if he didn’t handle everything perfectly, he knew he could try. He didn’t even feel bad for showing he cared, for admitting that small truth, which was definitely different for him.

For once, he was sure he had done something good – something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More plot has arrived...!
> 
> Thank you for everyone who keeps encouraging me, and thank you for waiting so patiently for a new chapter! I promise I am trying my best to get the next one up sooner. Also sorry for the lack of Peterick in this chapter, but believe me, there will still be plenty of that coming in the next few chapters. 
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment, I'd love to hear your thoughts; it's what keeps me going! ;)


	6. All You Need Is Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick really, really tries his best to get over Pete. But why, _why_ doesn't it seem to work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Stumporta at the beginning, but don't worry, plenty of Peterick to come later in the chapter.  
> If I didn't steal titles from Morrissey, this chapter would be named "hookers and blowjobs" instead, lol.

Patrick ran into Gabe again. He knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. Still, he wasn’t prepared for it when he was torn out of his thoughts by someone calling his name.

He turned around, irritated. He was on his way to the studio, mind already occupied with today’s tasks, sounds, and music, and it took him a moment to realize who was standing in front of him.

 

“The elusive Stump.” Gabe gave him a nod, but it wasn’t accompanied by his usual smile. “It’s been a while.” 

“Gabe. Uhm, hi?” Patrick nervously crossed his arms in front of his chest. He wasn’t sure how to behave now that they met for the first time after their last encounter in the neutral surroundings of work, and his shoulders tensed up under Gabe’s watchful eyes

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “I almost get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me.”

 

“I haven’t,” Patrick denied. It wasn’t a _complete_ lie; he hadn’t actively _tried_ to avoid Gabe, but he also hadn’t gone out of his way to meet him again either. It was easier than to deal with this mess. It was easier than being rejected outright as _just another stranger. Meaningless. Stupid. Naïve. No one special._ “I’ve just been busy with work,” Patrick offered as a weak explanation. Again, it wasn’t a complete lie.

But he also had to admit to himself that somehow, between all his messy encounters with troubled prostitutes, he had almost forgotten a normal life outside of shady hookers existed.

Gabe must have noticed the uneasy look that passed over Patrick’s face. “Hey. I meant it when I said I wanted to see you again. Here, let me prove it.” He produced a pen from somewhere in his pockets. “Your arm, Patrick.”

Patrick furrowed his brows in confusion, but did as he was told. Gabe drew his arm closer, and scribbled a row of digits on it.

“I know _I_ want to see you again. If you do too, well, you have my number now.” A sheepish grin took over Gabe’s face. “I’d been meaning to give it to you after the party, but you were out the door before I could properly gather my thoughts.” He winked at Patrick before taking a step back. “You always make me chase you, Patrick. Now, it’s your turn.” He gestured towards the numbers written on Patrick’s arm. “Hope to hear from you soon!”

And with that, Patrick found himself standing all alone in the hallway again, a confused look on his face and the phone number of Gabe Saporta on his arm. He would have almost thought of it as a joke, if not for the crudely drawn digits on him proving that this was indeed a real thing that had just happened.

 

A hot guy just handed him his number.

Finally, this was his chance to be more than a one-night stand, more than just a passing stranger. More than he would ever be to Pete.

 

Getting involved into the mess with these hookers had been stupid and irrational from the very beginning, and buying another hooker had been a terrible idea. But Gabe, the promise of a real date, and maybe something more – yeah, that seemed like a much better option.

Patrick was feeling desperate, and besides, in his ordinary, safe surroundings of his studio, Pete seemed so far away. Just a nagging thought at the back of his mind. Merely an illusion, barely even real. Almost forgettable, if Patrick tried hard enough to forget, and Patrick would try his best to forget.

 

No, Pete didn’t matter. _I don’t matter to Pete either – I’m just a client. That’s how this game was supposed to be played._

And so, just a few days later, Patrick found himself agreeing to be joined by a too tall, too flashy, too attractive man in his apartment.

 

“You made it,” was all Patrick could bring out when he realized that Gabe actually stood in his door, right in front of him, with a bright smile on his lips. There was no going back now.

“Of course I made it,” Gabe replied, and pressed a kiss on Patrick’s mouth. “Couldn’t wait to see you again!” With these words, he went inside, followed by his slightly overwhelmed host.

He never had to entertain Pete, and he was well-acquainted with the hooker’s presence. Pete felt safe. He wasn’t sure how to behave around Gabe, though.

But talking to Gabe turned out to be easy. He was loud and excited, eager to tell Patrick everything about the upcoming tour, band life, music; all Patrick had to do was to supply a drink, an occasional nod, or a hopefully witty response.

 

Soon, talking became obsolete anyway.

 

Somewhere between lighthearted conversation and less than subtle glances, Gabe came closer, almost a little too close, his long legs pressing against Patrick’s and his hands brushing over Patrick’s shoulder. And soon enough, Gabe towered over him, and leaned in for a kiss. Patrick kissed back, let himself get pushed down, and tried not to mind that his hat got knocked down and his shirt pulled up in the process.

There were too many other things to take in. Gabe’s lips on his, Gabe’s tongue exploring his mouth and his fingers exploring his body, one wandering under his shirt, and one grabbing his hair. Patrick couldn’t help but grimace, and he bat away the intruding hand on his head. “Can you stop with that?” he demanded, irritated. “I’m not your pet.”

“Don’t blame me. You always hide underneath a hat, so of course I’m curious to get my hands on your hair as soon as I see it exposed.” Gabe sent him a wink. “Same for the rest of you, Stump.”

“I don’t like it,” Patrick said weakly, and bit his lip. He didn’t really feel comfortable with admitting all his personal boundaries and secret insecurities to Gabe of all people. He wanted to appear confident, not weak and vulnerable. Like a _normal_ goddamn person, not a _freak_.

“Okay.” Gabe nodded. “Then I won’t do it again.” He leaned forward. “What about the rest of your body, huh?” As if to underline his question, he placed his hand on Patrick’s thigh, a little bit too close to his crotch.

“It’s fine, I guess,” Patrick replied, trying to sound smooth. He couldn’t afford to screw this up.

 

He wanted to _want_ to let Gabe in. Oh, everything in life would be so much easier if Patrick just nodded his head, and accepted the affection from him. If he could stop obsessing over a stranger that would remain out of his reach forever, and instead, just accepted Gabe’s hand.

Now, with the hooker being absent (existing somewhere on another layer of reality, in a dark alleyway, or someone else’s car, where someone else touched and kissed and grabbed him, and – _no, not important_ ), with Gabe’s honest smile in his view and his hands on Patrick’s body, it almost seemed possible.

“Just fine?” Gabe laughed, and sat up. “Let me make it more than fine.”

“Sure,” Patrick replied, because he wanted to want this so much; he wanted Gabe to make it fine, let him forget. He knew that no matter how wrong the words felt on his tongue, _this_ was the answer he was supposed to give.

 

With that, Patrick soon found himself underneath Gabe again, naked, but at least in his own bed this time, shirt and pants lost together with the last inhibitions and pushed away like the doubts in his mind. _This_ was the right thing. _This_ was what everyone else, everyone normal would do.

“God, you are so fucking hot, babe, all flushed and eager for me,” Gabe groaned, and Patrick didn’t bother to object. _Those_ were the right words, these were things people are supposed to say to each other.

“Want to suck you off,” he continued, hands now on Patrick’s cock, and there was no way Patrick would deny him. Gabe wanted him, without money or lies involved.

 

How could Patrick _not_ want this?

It was simply wrong to say no.

 

He made an incoherent but affirmative sound, and held his hand up. Gabe sat up, and Patrick blindly went for the first drawer in his nightstand, praying that – _yes, thank God_ , he thought with relief when his hands felt the familiar plastic wrapping underneath them. He discreetly checked the expiration date; still good to go, even though he had no clue when he had even bought these. _Pete always uses his own stuff, and – whatever,_ Patrick interrupted his thoughts, and turned back to Gabe, tossing him one of the condoms.

 

Gabe seemed disappointed for a moment, but said nothing.

 

Patrick didn’t dare to be so careless and rough as he was with the hooker. But still, Gabe was pretty damn good at what he did. Good enough to make Patrick moan and fist his hands into Gabe’s hair, as he tried to focus on the moment, tried to remind himself that _I matter, I can be more than just a number, more than the cash in my wallet. I matter to someone._

Patrick dug his nails a little deeper into Gabe’s skin, and moaned a little louder for an audience that wasn’t there, yet still present in his mind.

The orgasm washed over his body, leaving his legs shaking and his mind blank. For a few moments, Patrick could forget – forget about his own insecurities, forget about any doubts, and forget about dirty little hookers. Forget about everything, like he had wanted so much. Pretend that this was fine, just fine.

 

Gabe intertwined their fingers, giving a reassuring squeeze, before he guided Patrick’s hand towards his crotch.

“Come on, babe, _please_ ,” he groaned, and Patrick felt Gabe’s erection underneath his fingers. Through the fading haze of his afterglow, he could feel the well-known feeling of triumph. Gabe’s cock was hard in his hands, _so hard because of me, me, me_ , and then there were soft moans falling from his lips – lips that now pressed against Patrick’s for a kiss, _a kiss, a real kiss_ – and soon enough, Gabe came with a groan.

Patrick felt Gabe’s cum landing on his hand and belly, then another kiss was pressed on his lips. He almost felt smug at how easily Gabe had been turned on _just from blowing me_ , and how fast he had come _just by me touching him_.

 

Maybe he could redeem himself tonight, show Gabe he could do better than last time. _Be a little worthier of him_.

 

“Fuck, that was good,” Gabe mumbled as he sat up. “Not as good as what you did with your mouth last time, though. But still.”

“Uh, thanks.” Patrick propped himself up on his elbows, and an involuntary sigh escaped him. There was a wrinkled condom on his softening cock, and Gabe’s half-dried cum on his stomach. Not an ideal situation.

Gabe shot him a dirty grin, and squeezed his hand into Patrick’s thigh. “Mmm, what a sight you make, babe. You should stay like this. Fuck, you have no idea how tempting you look right now…”

Indeed, Patrick had little idea how anything about his appearance could be rewarded with the attribute of “tempting”, but he bit back his objection. It was meant as a compliment. Patrick felt like he was in no position to turn that down, _especially coming from someone as pretty as Gabe. I should be glad._

Gabe’s eyes lingered on him for a few more moments, hungry and filled with emotions Patrick wasn’t used to seeing in someone else’s eyes; wasn’t used to seeing in _Pete’s_ eyes –

 

No, no, _no. Not again_. Patrick shook his head, and tried to regain his composure and a more dignified appearance. He sat up and reached for the tissues, using one to wrap the used rubber in, but when he reached for another one to clean himself up, he was stopped.

“Let me, babe.” Gabe grabbed one of the tissues (unaware that they were kept there ever since Patrick started fucking a hooker on a regular basis – not that Patrick felt like telling him that), and pushed him back into the pillows. A surprised noise escaped Patrick’s throat, but he didn’t object.

 

Then, he felt Gabe’s tongue on him, hot and wet and licking over his skin. Another undignified noise came out of Patrick’s throat, but he stayed silent otherwise.

 

This wasn’t a hooker he could boss around _. In the real world, people sometimes have to compromise their own comfort for someone else’s_.

 

At least, Gabe wiped off some of his spit with the tissue afterwards. “You should let me suck you off without a condom next time,” he growled, “I’m clean, and I assume you are too. Right?”

Patrick wanted to say yes, but a shadow of a doubt and the shadow of dark eyes, dark ink, and bad things done in dark alleyways haunted his mind. No, he had always been careful with Pete. They had always used protection, no condom had broken, and there shouldn’t be a reason to worry. _At least not about me, right?_

Realizing that silence was probably not the best answer, Patrick nodded mechanically. “Yeah, sure.”

Gabe only laughed. “Yeah, you’re such a control freak, I wasn’t worried about that.” He lowered his voice. “Imagine the things we could do, hm? You could put your cute little mouth on me without any worries, too. You could let me bareback you, let me fuck you raw and rough with nothing in between us…”

Patrick felt his face heat up at these suggestions. He was used to talking about sex, hell, the hooker he slept with was anything but shy when it came to talking. But these were things Pete would never (maybe, _could_ never) willingly offer to him.

 

Well, he wouldn’t have to restrict himself like that with Gabe. He could do things to and with Gabe he could never do with Pete. And Patrick bit back any objections. He didn’t want to come off as a prude, or boring. If _Gabe_ wanted it, he should at least give it a try, right? _Real people needed to compromise sometimes_. This would be the price to pay for a relationship with someone who didn’t get paid in cash to sleep with him.

“Wanna go for a second round?” Gabe leaned in for another kiss, and Patrick pushed back the image of sweat and spit and semen that could still be lingering on Gabe’s tongue. He thought back to the blowjob just now – he suddenly suspected Gabe had done it because he remembered the last time and Patrick’s pathetically short-lived stamina.He finally pulled away from the kiss to give a non-committal noise, not wanting to promise anything. Patrick knew that after coming just now, he was too sensitive to handle getting fucked for a while. And he suspected that Gabe wasn’t up for bottoming – not that Patrick could even imagine how the hell that would even work, given their difference in height.

“Well,” Gabe grinned, his hand resting on Patrick’s his now, “will you let me stay to find out? I can’t stay long tomorrow, but I’d sure love to spend the night with you. So?”

Patrick hesitated. But there was an incredibly hot guy in his bed, all bright smiles and expectant eyes, hands on him with no restrictions, with desire, the _real_ desire to touch, kiss, sleep with him, unlike _someone else_.

 

If another hooker hadn’t helped getting over his stupid infatuation with Pete, maybe a real person would. Gabe could give him everything Pete couldn’t, stability, sanity, and possibly an actual relationship.

This was what he _should_ want, what he wanted to want so much. He should probably be grateful that someone like Gabe even paid this much attention to him. He _had_ to accept; it was the only logical thing to do. It was the _right_ thing to do.

 

“Yes,” Patrick finally replied, “ _stay._ ”

 

 

 

 

Patrick woke up alone in his bed.

First, he didn’t register this as something wrong; he usually woke up like this. But after rubbing his eyes and noticing the unusual soreness when sitting up, as well as the messy state of the side next to him, he remembered.

 

_Gabe._

 

Patrick blinked, irritated by the lack of Gabe next to him; and for a moment, panic settled in his chest, the humiliating thought that Gabe had left him behind without a word of goodbye, _ran off while I was still sleeping, abandoned me_ –

His doubts were soon proven wrong when he heard someone coming out of the bathroom. That someone turned out to be Gabe, who re-entered the bedroom already showered and dressed, looking handsome as always despite his still wet hair and wearing yesterday’s clothes. Patrick silently cursed himself for being such a heavy and long sleeper; this was the second time he woke up with Gabe, and once again he felt like he made for a pathetic sight.

At least this time, he wasn’t hungover, and at least he had had the decency to put on some clothes before they went to sleep.

 

“Hey babe,” Gabe greeted him as soon as he noticed Patrick was awake. “Sorry I didn’t wake you, but you looked too adorable and peaceful in your sleep!”

“Really,” Patrick said in disbelieve while discreetly trying to smooth his hair.

“Yeah, and I remembered you’re no morning person,” Gabe replied, and sat down next to him. “I used the time to get ready. I used your stuff in the shower, hope that’s okay?”

“Yeah, uhm, sure.” Those were the same toiletries he allowed a _hooker_ to use, but Patrick didn’t feel like thinking about that right now.Besides, Gabe didn’t know. He didn’t need to know. Pete lived in another world that had nothing to do with him. Pete didn’t matter right now.

 

“Also, I wanted to make you breakfast, but – “ Gabe gave him an exaggerated scolding look, and poked Patrick’s chest, “you’re pretty much out of everything edible.

Another wave of embarrassment flooded Patrick, and he averted his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured, not entirely sure what exactly he was sorry for. “I, uh, I didn’t mean to be a bad host. Or leave you without breakfast. Sorry.”

He made a mental note to go grocery shopping next time he expected someone over, even if just to be spared from feeling this pathetic.

 

“Make it up to me with a good morning kiss?”

Gabe leaned closer, and Patrick didn’t allow himself to overthink this again, and just leaned into the kiss. Neither of them had brushed their teeth, not making it the best kiss ever, but Patrick couldn’t deny a strange feeling of pride.

He finally pulled away, and wiped his mouth. “Morning breath, Gabe. Gross,” he scolded, but there wasn’t much bite behind it. Gabe grinned. “You’ll have to give me a toothbrush next time, babe,” he just said, and stood up. “Will you see me off?”

“Sure.” Patrick stood up as well, and a small grunt escaped his lips when he climbed out of bed to follow Gabe. Even after hours of comfortable sleep, he still felt slightly sore. Fuck, how the hell did Pete manage to casually get up and walk away right after sex?

_Well, he has a lot more practice getting fucked_ , the familiar nasty voice in him chimed in. Patrick tried to ignore it, and tried to focus on his present companion again. He blinked, only now realizing what Gabe had said.

“Wait, what was that about a next time?”

 

Gabe sent him a sheepish grin and shrugged, and Patrick couldn’t help but feel a slight shudder when he saw these familiar gestures on him. “I like you, Patrick. And I’d like to see you again, if you want.”

Gabe gave him another bright smile, and Patrick couldn’t help but blush. Wasn’t this what he had wanted? Yet Patrick suddenly couldn’t help but feel like all of this was too soon, too easy, to convenient. Gabe could have anyone _, so why does he settle for me?_

 

Then, a cold, heavy feeling settled in his chest. He remembered that the reason people smiled at him was because they were sugarcoating lies.

 

_Of course Gabe would like to see me again. He thinks I’m an easy lay now_.

 

All it had taken were some sappy words, and Patrick had let Gabe into his apartment, his life, his body. All it had taken were some tender strokes and hard thrusts for Patrick to let his guard down and be convinced he meant something to Gabe, that he mattered, that someone like Gabe could ever care about him.

“You don’t need to pretend, you know,” Patrick said, anger seeping into his voice. “If you just want to get laid, tell me so.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Gabe shook his head in disbelief. “I told you – _I like you_ , Patrick. A lot. And I’d like to see you again for more than just sex.” He looked at Patrick with a weird expression, almost hurt. But then his eyes softened, and he bent down to kiss Patrick, who turned his head away.

“Seriously, why are you so worried?” Gabe sighed, and scratched his head. “I think I’m a pretty straightforward guy, and I speak my mind. If I were here for _just getting laid_ , I would have let you know. But, as I said, I’m hoping for a little more.” Gabe gave him another strange look, shy and vulnerable like Patrick had never seen him before. It was an unusually insecure moment. “Give people a chance, Patrick. Maybe you’ll like me, too, hm?”

“It’s not like I _don’t_ like you, obviously,” Patrick tried to explain, but words seemed to fail him. “I do like you. Very much. It’s just – I’m sorry, this is all so much, and I –“

 

He bit his lip before he could spew out any more nonsense, and looked away from Gabe, angry with himself. Why couldn’t he reciprocate? Whenever he was with Pete, he had to try his hardest to bite back any traitorous words of affection and desperation. And now, here, in front of Gabe, in front of this charming man who wanted to hear all of this, who would – unlike the hooker – certainly appreciate them in the right way, the words failed Patrick.

 

Why couldn’t he just say whatever was necessary and appropriate? Why, why, _why_?

 

But Gabe’s face finally relaxed, and a smile tugged at his lips. “Hey. I’ll give you all the time you want. We don’t need to rush anything.”

 

Patrick nodded. This time, when Gabe bowed down for a kiss, he met his lips without hesitation.And for once, after Gabe had shut the door behind him, there was a tiny bit of hope, instead of the usual sadness, guilt and loneliness Patrick felt whenever _the hooker_ left his apartment. And that tiny glimmer of hope was all Patrick needed to convince himself that this was the right thing to do. The rational side of him knew it was, and Patrick was sure his heart would catch up on that soon, too.

This was right, right, _right_ , and if he just kept reminding himself of that, Patrick was sure the uneasy feeling of wrongness and the image of Pete would stop haunting him. It had to, _it had to_.

 

 

 

 

Still, a few days later, Patrick found himself driving down the too well-known street again.

He had half-heartedly tried to talk himself out of it. But being alone in his apartment with nothing but silence and a glass of whiskey to keep him company, the thought of going to pick up the hooker became so much more appealing again.

The only difference was a faint hint of guilt, and not the usual one. Patrick blinked in confusion when he realized that instead of getting over Pete, he had now dragged Gabe into this emotional mess in his head as well. He sighed heavily, and anger overcame him.

 

_It’s not like I’m cheating. Gabe isn’t my boyfriend, or anything. I don’t owe him anything._

Gabe had sounded honest when he suggested something more, but Patrick still wasn’t ready to fully believe him yet.

_I could still just mean nothing to him_.

 

_Just like you mean nothing to Pete_ , his mind chided him, but Patrick shook his head. He wasn’t supposed to mean anything to Pete in the first place. Now that there was Gabe, he could finally go back to seeing Pete as what he truly was – _a prostitute I pay for sex, and nothing more_. Whatever Gabe turned out to be could be dealt with later. And before that, there surely was nothing wrong with having a little harmless fun.

He could concentrate mushy feelings and sappy emotions on the handsome, very much real man that had kissed him and slept with him without money involved, and save the rest for Pete.Pete would never be more than a hooker, and Patrick would stop to make him more than that. No more questions.

Patrick didn’t stop to overthink his hypocrisy, and he pushed Gabe and guilt out of his mind. He also didn’t ask himself why he drew enough cash from the ATM to pay Pete for more than this one night, because he already knew that this wouldn’t be the last time he saw the hooker; because he was already looking forward to next time.

 

 

Patrick parked the car in front of Pete’s spot. He saw that Pete was talking to the other hooker that was usually in his company – _Brendon_ , Patrick’s mind supplied – but as soon as he noticed the car, he gave the boy a nod, and made his way over to his client. “Patrick! How nice to see you again,” he greeted him, “how’s my favorite customer?”

Patrick rolled his eyes in response. “I’ll ask him when I see him, thanks.”

“Did you think about my offer?” Pete asked playfully. “Want me to be all yours for the whole night?” He leaned into the car window, displaying the well-known smirk and exposing some of the well-known tattoos.

Patrick shook his head. Part of him wanted exactly that, but _no_. He wouldn’t give in to the temptation. He wouldn’t grant Pete another victory. He wouldn’t let him in any further, and he wouldn’t make any of the mistakes he made last time.

 

On top of that, a vicious feeling of spite briefly passed his mind. _Gabe stayed the night without money or hooker games. I don’t need you for that, Pete._

 

Pete’s grin faltered, and for a second, he looked displeased. Almost disappointed. But he soon enough regained control over himself, and his face regained his smile. “Just the usual, then?"

Patrick shook his head. Today, he wanted something a little different. Something that had been occupying his mind ever since their last encounter. It was this new side of him that had surfaced, the unusual satisfaction he had felt for pleasing Pete. The unfamiliar warm feeling in his chest, the dangerous but delicious sense of arousal it gave him.

All of that, plus the images that had been taunting him for a while now. Pete’s cock in his hand, in his mouth, and Pete underneath him, squirming and moaning his name.

The remaining whiskey still running through his system was backing up his courage, and a pair of whiskey eyes were confirming his desires, _and surely, this time, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to ruin this with questions, or doubts. I’m just buying a hooker._

 

“No, not the usual,” Patrick replied. “I, well. I want to blow you.”

 

For a split second, surprise overtook Pete’s face, before it was replaced by the former smile. “ _You_ want to blow _me_ , Patrick? That’s new. Are you sure you didn’t confuse anything?"

“Do I need to spell it out? I want to blow you. Is that a service you offer?” Patrick nervously drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for Pete’s response. He felt like a fool for asking, but it was too late to shove the words back into whatever corner of his mind they came from.

“Sure.” Pete shrugged, and he eyed Patrick’s mouth. “How could I resist this new, unexpected temptation?” He asked, playfully giving him a wink.

Patrick nodded and fiddled out his wallet, glad to have an excuse to hide his face (a traitorous blush coloring it pink, he was sure of that – even after all this time, he still couldn’t keep his composure under the hooker’s knowing grin). He held out his hand, clutching a bundle of bills in it. “It’s the usual amount. Uhm, unless there’s a different rate for…”

 

“It’s fine,” Pete said with a smirk. “I’ll be generous, and not charge you a higher rate. But only because I like you best!” He winked, and Patrick leaned over to open the car door to once more welcome the hooker back into his life.

_The hooker, and only the hooker_ , Patrick reminded himself, but he didn’t dare to look over to his grinning co-driver once.

 

 

Back at the apartment, Pete went into the bathroom, and Patrick poured himself another drink, nervousness overcoming him. Suddenly, he felt less sure about his request. Blowing a hooker certainly would be a new low in his life. Once more, he was crossing a line he hadn’t meant to cross, giving in to temptations he never knew he had in the first place _again_ (Patrick had lost count of how many times this had happened by now). Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ –

 

Patrick washed down his doubts with another mouthful of alcohol.

 

Pete was nothing but a hooker, _and he’s here just for pleasure;_ **_my_ ** _pleasure. And that’s all this is about_ . Pete could smirk at him all he wanted, _but we’ll see if he keeps the arrogant attitude once I have my mouth of him, make him beg for more_. Patrick remembered Gabe’s praise, and he hadn’t been the first one to compliment him, _so surely, I’ll be good enough for Pete, too_ –

The sound of the bathroom door opening interrupted Patrick’s thoughts, and the well-known sight of a gorgeous hooker, naked and ready, put a stop to these doubts.

 

But the sight of Pete’s injury conjured all new kinds of troubled thoughts instead. Teeth marks, just like last time, surrounded by a mess of hickeys; already healing, and Patrick didn’t even want to imagine what it must have looked like just a few days ago. He took another sip of his drink, trying to swallow the questions on the tip of his tongue, and trying to drown the flash of anger that washed over him. Pure hatred settled in his guts, hate for whatever bastard dared to touch him, dared to hurt him, _dared to hurt Pete like this_ –

 

Pete, undoubtedly noticing his client’s agitation, just sent him a sugary-sweet smile, accompanied by equally sweet words. “It’s fine, Patrick,” he cooed, and waved his hand. “Pay no attention to it.”

Even though he still held up his smile, the harshness in his eyes made it clear that he was unwilling to discuss this any further. Patrick took another sip of his drink, and decided to play along. If Pete could pretend, _so can I, right?_ If Pete didn’t want questions _, I’m not going to pry for answers I’ll never get._

 

_I’m not here for questions. I’m not here for questions. I’m not here for questions._

 

The more he repeated the mantra in his head, the more Patrick was almost ready to believe it.

 

“Well,” Pete said as he came closer, going for a low, sultry tone in his voice now. “How do you want me? Standing up? Pressed against the wall? On the couch -?"

“Bedroom,” Patrick interrupted, gesturing towards the door. The sooner he could forget his stupid concerns, and the sooner he got to the part he paid Pete for, the better.

“Lead the way,” Pete chirped, and Patrick sighed, but stayed silent. He made his way to the bedroom, still clutching the half-empty tumbler in his hand, soon followed by his grinning guest.

Patrick placed his glass on the nightstand, and Pete discreetly placed the condoms and the bottle of lube next to it. Patrick hadn’t even noticed he had taken them out of his backpack, but appreciated the foresight.

 

Silence settled between them, and Patrick hesitated, words stuck in his throat and his heart hammering in his chest. He had to admit, it somehow had been a lot easier with Gabe. Gabe had made clear what he wanted, and all Patrick had to do was say yes. Now, it was Patrick who had control, and Pete was here to say _yes_ and _please_ , like always – _so why am I hesitating?_

 

It was Pete who spoke up first. “You didn’t sleep with another hooker, did you?” He asked, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

 

Patrick eyed him with confusion. Pete was always pretty good at reading the situation, and whenever it was obvious that Patrick wanted something from him but didn’t know how to word it, didn’t know how to start, he soon solved that by making the first step. Pete sure liked to talk and tease, but he wasn’t fond of pointless chit-chat. “I didn’t,” Patrick simply replied, not bothering to mention the other man he had slept with. But just like last time, he felt an infuriating pang of guilt.

What did it matter? It was none of Pete’s business who Patrick slept with, just like Patrick didn’t care (didn’t care, didn’t care, _didn’t care_ ) whomever else purchased Pete’s body. And his relationship with Gabe was nothing that belonged to Pete’s world – Pete had only asked about hookers anyway, right? Patrick shook his head again _. And it’s not like Pete really gives a damn, he’s just afraid of losing business._   

 

“Good,” Pete purred, uncrossed his arms and relaxed his shoulders, “you’ve been a good boy, Patrick.” He put his hands behind his back, and his grin got wider, exposing teeth and hiding whatever emotions he might had.

Patrick winced at the involuntary joy he felt from Pete’s approval and praising words. He hated stupid pet names, hated the slightly demeaning attitude. He knew it was nothing but a game; _this shouldn’t be so satisfying to me, it’s ridiculous_. Still, he let it slip, and didn’t bother with a witty reply.

“But I’m afraid that _I_ haven’t been a good boy...” Pete cooed, and let out a dramatic sigh. “I know how much you like dirty boys, Patrick, and I’ve been so, so bad, and such a naughty boy. So many other men got me filthy, and all the dirty things they did to me – oh, and all the shameful, sinful things _I’ve_ done…”

He came closer, head lowered and hands still behind his back. Big brown eyes surrounded by long lashes and black paint were looking at Patrick expectantly, and the docile pose didn’t fit in with the dirty grin and the dirty words from his mouth. But the words fit a little too well with everything else: the smug smile plastered on his face (worn like armor, and the smile not quite reaching his eyes), the bruising on his collarbone (infuriating, so goddamn infuriating), and the sickening thoughts that crept up in Patrick’s mind again ( _someone hurt him, someone dared to hurt him_ –)  

 

He bit his lip, determined not to let any questions about the origin of the bruises spill from his mouth. Pete wouldn’t answer any of them anyway. As infuriating as it was, there was nothing Patrick could do. Ignoring it (or trying to, at least) was much easier than the nauseating feeling of being helpless.

“Do I still deserve the blowjob, Patrick?” Pete stuck out his lower lip and gave a poor impression of coyness, too theatrical and too much of a lie to come off as genuine.

_You deserve better_ , Patrick couldn’t help than think. _And if only I could give you more than that_.

 

“If it’ll get you to shut up,” Patrick replied instead, trying to sound calm and collected despite his agitated state. He didn’t want to fall behind in this well-known game. “You talk too much.”

Pete let out his familiar ugly, but captivating laugh that Patrick had grown so fond of. “You like the dirty whore, but not the dirty truth, hm?” He paused, and realization lit his eyes. “Oh, excuse me,” he said, his tone indicating anything but sincerity, “I remember now: you don’t want me to use these filthy words anymore, right?”

 

Patrick felt himself grow impatient, and felt irrational anger over the truth behind Pete’s words – no, he certainly didn’t want to hear about any of that right now. Pete belonged to him and _only him_ right now, and no one had the right to ruin that for Patrick. Neither Pete’s other clients, nor the unpleasant truth of what they did to him.

And he didn’t want to hear the demeaning terms coming from Pete’s mouth, because they brought back the nasty part, that agreed –  _because isn’t Pete right_ ? _He_ **_is_ ** _a hooker, he_ **_is_ ** _a dirty whore, disgusting, pathetic, beneath you, right? He deserves all of this, right, right -?_

Patrick didn’t want to explore this part of his brain any further. He knew it was wrong, and – _whatever. No_ . Pete didn’t deserve to be called by such demeaning names, but after all, he was just a prostitute. Nothing less _, but also nothing more._

 

He was here to show Pete, show _himself_ that Pete meant nothing to him.

 

“Just shut up already and lay down,” Patrick gave as a reply, unwilling to dwell any further on these thoughts.

Pete did as he was told, limbs sprawled out and the playful smirk still on his lips. “Not fond of talking today, huh?"

“I’m not here to talk.” Patrick crossed his arms in front of his chest, and tried his best to stay true to his words.

“Right,” Pete smirked, “I remember, you are here to use your mouth for something else – I guess I’m in for a treat? You make me feel so special, Patrick!”

“It’s not really a treat if I pay you,” Patrick objected, but he still hesitated.

 

Pete must have noticed that his client was still standing next to the bed, unsure of what to do, radiating nervousness and insecurity. He rolled his eyes, and extended his hand towards Patrick. “Come on, honey. Stop worrying so much, and join me in bed!”

“Don’t call me ‘honey’,” Patrick said, but his voice sounded less stern than intended. He ignored the inviting hand. “You know I hate that.”

“I know you do.” Pete let out a snicker, and put his hand on his chest, right below the colorful reminders of a ghostly mouth still clinging to his skin. “Will you punish me for misbehaving?”

“What? No. Can you stop with this nonsense?” Patrick retorted, suspecting that Pete would continue to take advantage of Patrick’s mouth being too preoccupied with his dick to deliver witty replies.

 

Oddly enough, it only fueled Patrick’s determination – he’d make Pete shut up, even without words, would suck him off until once again, his stupid lies would be replaced with rightful moans and begging. Until there was nothing else on his mind (no other Johns, no uncomfortable truth or soothing drugs he hopefully, _please, please, please, hasn’t taken to bear with reality_ ), _nothing but me_.

Patrick climbed on the bed, and placed his hands on Pete’s legs. He tried to ignore the involuntary shudder when he touched his knees, where the skin felt just a little too rough.

The hooker stayed silent for now, just as Patrick had told him to, but even in his obedience Pete’s attitude conveyed nothing but smugness. As always, the mischievous smile on Pete’s lips was just begging to be wiped off. And his pretty face and pretty body belonged to Patrick alone right now, would bend to his will, do what he wanted, _do what I paid him to do_.

Patrick’s heartrate picked up, just slightly; finally, _finally_ he felt whatever doubts and moral objections he had fading away. _I bought a hooker, and that’s it, nothing more._

 

“Hey, Pete, listen.”

 

Pete was attentive enough to catch the seriousness in his tone, and nodded. “I’m listening, Patrick.”

“Don’t pull my hair. And don’t push my head down, I _hate_ that.”

“Figures,” Pete grinned, but his face was soon overtaken by a more neutral expression, the same he always wore when negotiating terms of their business. “Anything else?”

 

“You can move your hips or whatever. A bit of response is fine. Just keep the other things in mind.”

“Got it,” Pete confirmed, “no hair pulling, no pushing your head down.”

 

“What about you?” Patrick asked, feeling increasingly weird for talking about the rules for blowing a hooker. It kind of ruined the moment. He just wanted to start before his resurfacing conscience and shame could spoil this any further.

“Condoms are required, as always,” Pete replied, gesturing to the object in question on the nightstand.

“Sure.” Patrick nodded, that didn’t come as a surprise. “Want me to use my fingers?” He asked, stroking over Pete’s thighs and hoping Pete would say yes, _yes, Patrick, please!_

Instead, Pete gave him a slightly confused look. “Why wouldn’t I? Don’t you want to fuck me now?”

 

Patrick just shook his head, and averted his eyes.

 

“So, this isn’t just foreplay, hm?” Pete asked, and Patrick shook his head again. He didn’t look at Pete, but he knew exactly that there was the usual smug expression taking over it again.

“Interesting, Patrick. You never fail to keep me entertained –“

 

“I asked you a question,” Patrick interrupted him impatiently. He didn’t feel like playing games right now, at least not to the hooker’s rules.

 

Pete seemed to contemplate the offer again. “Two fingers will be enough, but I’m not fond of spit alone. Lube’s over there,” he continued in a firm voice, pointing over to the nightstand, and Patrick couldn’t help but shudder; Pete’s firm voice was a hint at how often this request must have been ignored in the past – _but whatever. Doesn’t concern me_. “And not to disappoint you, but I don’t do rimming. So, keep your tongue away from my ass, please.”

Patrick felt his face heat up. “I – I had no intention of doing otherwise.”

Pete sent him a look of disbelief, but didn’t comment on it. “Oh, and don’t bite off my dick. I happen to like it the way it is,” he added, and gave Patrick a wink. “And so do you, right?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Patrick said annoyed, and ignored Pete’s question. “Anything else you want?” He felt weird for asking, but shoved that feeling aside. Patrick wanted the same pleasure from pleasing Pete that he had felt last time. He wanted to make sure that Pete would beg, beg, _beg_. For more, for more of him – not for an anonymous face, no, _only for me, and only for what I’m doing_.

Pete let out a chuckle; then, a seductive smirk replaced his former goofy grin.

 

“I want _you_ , Patrick,” he said in a low voice, and as if to underline his words, he spread his legs a little wider. “Please satisfy my curiosity about that mouth of yours, and please satisfy my… Other needs,” he continued, as he let one hand wander over his chest, stomach, just an inch away from his cock, then let it rest on the inside of his thigh.

 

It was silly, well-known words and well-known lies, but Patrick was eager to believe that _Pete wants this; wants me, and me alone_.

 

He leaned over him until their faces almost touched. Pete’s lips were so close, it would have been so easy, too easy to kiss him, _just this once –_

 

_No._ Kissing was reserved for real people like Gabe, not for prostitutes like Pete.

Patrick shoved back the thought of kissing, and instead, went for his need for words. If Pete was determined to talk, he at least wanted the hooker to say the right things.

“Tell me then, Pete,” he whispered, “What is it that you are curious about? What things do you imagine my mouth doing?”

 

“I want your lips opening up for me. Taking me in.” Pete hesitated, but Patrick didn’t object. Instead, he used the moment to get his hand on Pete’s cock.

 

“Go on,” he demanded.

 

“Want to feel the inside of your mouth. Want to feel you suck hard, press your tongue against my dick,” Pete continued, but interrupted his speech when Patrick’s hand started to stroke his cock, slow at first, but increasing speed as he felt it harden.

 

“Is that all, Pete?” Patrick inquired, trying his best to sound nonchalant instead of greedy and desperate.

Those were the kind of questions he was supposed to ask, and those were the kind of answers Pete was supposed to give him.

 

Concentrating on Pete’s words made it easier for Patrick to forget whatever objections were on his mind. And touching Pete’s body, feeling it respond with arousal _caused by_ _me, me_ – it gave him the same sense of dangerous satisfaction as the last time.

It just felt so good to press a kiss on the slight stubble on Pete’s jaw, on the warm skin of his neck, and on the soft skin over his collar bones (carefully avoiding the injuries, and desperately avoiding his need to ask questions, the need to beg Pete to _please be careful, please, please_ ).

Remembering the last time, he let his tongue wander over Pete’s raised nipples, causing Pete to arch his back and let out a surprised gasp.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s good, I want that, too!”

He could feel Pete’s dick twitch in his hand. Fuck, he could feel his _own_ cock reacting, half-hard already and pressing against his pants.

 

Pete still seemed determined to follow Patrick’s request. But a soft moan now fell from his lips before he continued.

“Want your fingers to open me up, sliding into me. Want to feel the tightness of your throat around the head of my cock, Patrick. I want – ah, I want spit and teeth and I want to see you _choke_ on my dick when I come in your mouth.”

“Really,” Patrick remarked, though he didn’t actively object. His own cock certainly didn’t mind, either, twitching again at the thought of Pete down his throat, rough and messy. “That’s nasty, Pete. Is that the way you talk to a paying customer?”

“Ah, I’m so sorry, but I’m just a rotten boy, Patrick,” Pete gasped, but the smug expression on his face only underlined the dishonesty of his mock apology. “I want _everything y_ ou’re willing to give, please!”

 

How could Patrick object when honey-sweet words dripped into his mind, and when Pete’s cock was so hard in his hands.

 

“Condom,” Patrick instructed, and Pete grabbed one from the nightstand. Patrick watched him roll the rubber over himself, before taking Pete’s dick into his own hands again. Patrick brought his mouth closer, and couldn’t help but slightly wrinkle his nose at the artificial smell. It wouldn’t be the nicest taste, either, _but those are the rules for blowing a dirty hooker_.

Yet Patrick didn’t want to start right now. He realized that while he had seen Pete naked countless times, had traced his fingers over his groin, thighs, and ass more often that he would like to admit, he had never really taken the time to explore these parts of Pete with his lips. Hastily and greedily maybe, in between desperate arousal and desperate fucking, but never like this. Never while paying attention. Never with care.

 

“Patrick, please!” Pete whined, obviously irritated at his client’s hesitancy. “Come on, _do_ something.”

 

It was unclaimed territory. Patrick pressed a kiss on each inked wing of the weird bat tattoo, felt coarse hair and hot skin under his lips and tongue as he trailed down to Pete’s inner thigh. With a strange sense of pride, he registered goosebumps forming under his fingertips as another groan escaped Pete’s mouth.

 

He let one hand rest on Pete’s thigh, and grabbed Pete’s cock with the other, then ran his tongue over his balls and up the shaft, causing Pete to squirm as he let out an impatient growl.

“You are such a fucking _tease_ , Patrick,” he whined, “I swear, please just blow me already, I’m – ah…!”

Pete interrupted whatever he had wanted to say when Patrick finally took him in his mouth. Instead, he let out a moan, and arched his back. Satisfied with the hooker’s surprised silence, Patrick decided to stop the teasing, and show Pete that he was capable of more.

Pete fisted his hands into the sheets, and while he occasionally buckled his hips, it was clear he was still holding back, not wanting to overstep unknown boundaries. It was slightly disappointing. Patrick had wanted him desperate and unrestrained, but after all, _I paid him for an act_.

 

“More, Patrick, please,” Pete whispered after a while. He let out another moan, before continuing: “Come on, I told you what I want, didn’t I?”

 

Patrick withdrew his head, causing Pete to let out a disapproving sound.

 

“And who said that you’re going to get it?” He asked as he looked over to Pete, who pouted his lips in the usual (poorly done) impression of submissiveness.

 

“Please? I’m trying so hard to be good for you, don’t I deserve a reward?”

 

Patrick sat up, and reached for the lube. “Well, since you’ve been such a good boy,” he said, feeling only slightly ridiculous, and only a little wrong.

 

“The best for you, Patrick!” As always, Pete’s stupid smug smile that Patrick so stupidly adored and his mocking voice belied his words. As always, Patrick couldn’t help but like it a little too much.

 

He coated two of his fingers with the lube, then put his hand between Pete’s legs. He hesitated, but before he could ask, Pete spoke up. “Are you gonna get your fingers inside me, or do I have to help you find the way?”

“I just want to make sure you’re ready.”

An impatient scoff was the answer. “Are you kidding? I’ve been ready since forever!”

Patrick let his first digit enter Pete, then a second, glancing over to him to ensure he was doing alright. But Pete seemed fine, and only let out another impatient moan. “Ah, yes, good – mmm, and are you gonna put your mouth back on my dick anytime soon, please? I liked that.”

“Okay,” Patrick said as he leaned forward. “But when I do, I want you to come for me, Pete.”

“Well then, keep up the fantastic work!” Pete stuck out his tongue and sent him a wink. It looked silly, but Patrick caught himself letting out a small laugh. “I will,” he said amused, only barely managing to hide a smile upon the praise.

 

Patrick briefly considered shoving a hand down his pants to take care of his own growing hard-on. Or maybe, do what Gabe had done, and let Pete jerk him off. After all, they were here for _his_ enjoyment, and wasn’t arousal and satisfaction exactly what he had wanted from this scenario? But Patrick wasn’t done yet – he hadn’t gotten everything he wanted. He wanted Pete to come, and he wanted an answer, needed to know if this had been a good idea to begin with.

So instead, he put his mouth back on Pete’s dick, determined to deliver the best work he could. His right hand tightened its grip around Pete’s cock, and crooked the fingers of his left hand, moving them at a faster pace. It caused another delectable whimper, and he could feel Pete tighten around his fingers, and his cock twitching in his mouth.

“I’m – ah, fuck, I’m close,” Pete moaned, “keep doing that, please!” He buried his face in his arm, and Patrick could hear a few more muffled cries of “please, _please_ ” falling from the hooker’s lips.      

Soon enough, he could feel it as Pete came, cock twitching in his mouth, tightening around his fingers, a whimper and a shudder accompanying his climax.

 

Patrick withdrew his head, wiped his mouth, and sat back up. He tried his best to get his breath back under control, and the spit off his face. He waited for regret to hit him, waited for panic to settle in his chest, or at least a conclusion if this had been a good idea or not. But none of that came. Instead, he could still feel his hard-on pressing against his pants.

It was what he had wanted, but now that he got it, he wasn’t sure if he liked it. Or rather, if he wasn’t liking it a little too much, for all the wrong reasons.

With a small sigh, he looked over to Pete, as if he could somehow deliver an explanation to this whole mess.

 

One of Pete’s hands was still clutching the sheets, while his face was half-hidden behind the other arm, head turned to the side.

Patrick lightly ran his hands over the inside of Pete’s thigh, feeling goosebumps and a shiver. Part of him wanted to lean forward, push Pete’s arm aside and press a kiss on his face, a kiss on his mouth, do all the things he could do with Gabe; things _normal_ people did. People who weren’t illegal hookers and desperate Johns.

The nasty side of him wanted to pin Pete’s arms to the mattress, hold him down and force him to stay like this forever, all broken and pretty, and all Patrick’s, _all of him_. _I can’t break his heart, but I can ruin everything else._

 

He shook his head, and pushed those conflicting thoughts aside. Patrick withdrew his hands, and stretched his arms, letting out a small breath he hadn’t even noticed he was holding.

Pete, noticing Patrick’s movement and missing hands on his body, sat up as well, still breathing heavily, and his gaze unfocused. Black hair falling into his face, black eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, black ink underneath drops of sweat. Dirty and debauched, and Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away.

But Pete quickly composed himself enough to get the condom off his dick, and he climbed out of bed to make his way to the kitchen without a second look at his client.

Patrick wanted to hold him back, but he remembered the last time he had wanted to force Pete to stay. Clearly, he wasn’t comfortable being seen like this, and did not appreciate being held back against his will. Patrick remained silent as he watched him walk off to the kitchen, then heard the door of the bathroom shutting behind him.

 

With a sigh, Patrick stood up as well to wash his hands and face over the kitchen sink. When he was done, he wiped his mouth again, and frowned. It wasn’t exactly the nicest feeling or taste. He hadn’t been able to properly focus on it while blowing Pete, but now, his aching jaw and the taste of sweat and spit and rubber all blended together into something Patrick would rather forget for now. It didn’t help that his own dick was still half-hard.

 

_Goddamn it_ , why were there still all these doubts?

 

He had the prospect of real dating, and this was just meaningless, harmless sex _with some hooker_. The glaring differences between his last time with Gabe and his encounter with Pete now were obvious, and the lines should have been clearer than ever. What Patrick needed was a distraction, and to calm down. He looked for his drink, only to remember that he put it on his nightstand.

He went back into the bedroom and grabbed his glass, knocking over one of the condoms the hooker had placed next to it. Patrick sighed, and took a small sip of his drink. The sharp taste of the liquor washed over his tongue, and left his throat burning. He took another sip, and grimaced. But at least, he felt a little more like himself again, and the pesky erection finally started to fade away together with his doubts and fears.

A few moments later, Pete came back into the bedroom, and laid down on the bed on his stomach. He buried his head in his arms, but turned his face towards his client. It was an unusually submissive position, and Patrick wondered if the now conveniently hidden bruises were the reason.

But Pete looked pretty from every angle, and Patrick couldn’t help but stretch out his unoccupied hand, only to stop himself at the last moment.

Last time he had kept Pete in his bed, he hadn’t been pleased with unwanted body contact at all. Patrick couldn’t stand the thought of narrowed, angry eyes looking at him.

 

“Pete, hey. Can I, you know –“ Patrick, feeling like a fool already, made a gesture with his hand still hovering over Pete’s body. “Can I touch you?”

 

Pete sent him a questioning look, and let out a chuckle. “You’ve just had your fingers inside of me, and my dick in your mouth, Patrick. It’s a little late to act shy.”

 

“I’m just asking.”

 

“Well, you _will_ be nice to me, right?” The well-known grin and mocking tone almost gave the illusion of playfulness. But the hooker’s eyes were a little too blank, and his words a little too harsh.

Patrick wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he simply nodded. “Of course.”

After a few moments, Pete’s expression softened, and he nodded. “Then go ahead.”

Patrick bit back a relieved smile, and wondered why he felt so grateful. This was a _prostitute_ , here for his pleasure, and touching wasn’t against the hooker’s rules. Why did he feel the need to ask all of the sudden?

_It doesn’t matter_ , he told himself. _Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter_. Questions were traded for the pleasurable experience of running his fingers over tan skin and tattoos, and then through Pete’s hair. To his surprise, Pete closed his eyes and leaned his head into the touch. He gave a soft, appreciative hum, so different from the sounds Patrick’s hands usually evoked from him. Patrick couldn’t help but smile as he took another sip from his drink, ignoring the burning feeling in his throat, and ignoring that it wasn’t the alcohol alone that was pleasantly warming him from the inside.

 

It dawned on him that this was a side of Pete he had never seen before. Right after sex, Pete usually disappeared into the bathroom, got dressed again, and soon was out of Patrick’s apartment. The only time Patrick had asked him to stay a little longer, he had been defensive and uncomfortable.

This was different. Pete seemed relaxed – this time, there was no tension in his shoulders and his eyes were closed, not staring at Patrick in distrust or anger. And this time, he didn’t mind that Patrick touched him.

Maybe it was because Pete had the chance to make himself comfortable again without Patrick’s intervention, or maybe it was just the usual show he put on when he was staying for longer after sex.

 

Patrick dropped the thought when he felt Pete’s head nudging his hand to move, and when Pete gave another purr when he apparently found the right spot just behind his ear. Running his hand over the nape of his neck and the fine hair there caused another pleased sound, and Patrick filed that away for later use. That was something he definitely wanted to hear again.

He put the tumbler aside, and couldn’t help but let his hand card through Pete’s hair, couldn’t help but close his own eyes, and couldn’t help but enjoy this new situation maybe just a little too much. Weirdly enough, even though Pete was still naked, and even though Patrick’s faintly aching throat was a reminder of the blowjob he’d just given, the situation didn’t feel sexual. For once, Patrick felt like he was touching Pete without dirty or selfish intentions behind it, and he couldn’t deny the new sense of enjoyment it gave him.

He could however deny the faint voice in the back of his head scolding him – _this is not what you’re paying for. This is not what Pete, no, this hooker is here for._

Denial, denial, denial, and Patrick kept his eyes closed and his hand running through black hair. It felt slightly sticky, but not from sweat. For the first time, he realized that maybe, this wasn’t how Pete’s hair naturally looked. The residue of hair product on his fingers made it clear that just like the stupid eyeliner and provocative clothes, this was yet another part of his hooker getup.

 

Patrick’s thoughts were interrupted by Pete’s voice.

 

“You are spoiling me today, aren’t you?” He asked, eyes open again and fixed on Patrick.

Patrick opened his eyes as well, but didn’t look at him. “So it was good,” he said, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. He was secretly relieved that his voice came out smooth, despite the burning sensation in the back of his throat, and the nagging thoughts in the back of his mind.

Pete laughed his ugly laugh, and Patrick could feel him shaking his head underneath his hand. “Want me to dig out the used condom from the trash as proof?”

“Gross, Pete,” Patrick scolded, but he couldn’t keep a hint of amusement out of his voice. “No, thanks.”

 

“I thought I made it pretty clear how good you were,” he grinned, eyes still fixed on Patrick who couldn’t help but blush. “Would I ever tell a lie to you?”

 

It could have been a lighthearted, rhetorical question in a lighthearted conversation. But coming from Pete’s mouth, accompanied by his smirk and considering he made a living out if telling lies, it felt like provocation. Patrick stopped running his hand through his hair.

“I don’t think you would ever tell me anything that’s a hundred percent _true_ ,” he frowned, and Pete laughed again.

“Well, either way, I certainly _enjoyed_ myself,” he remarked nonchalantly, seemingly unbothered by the accusations. “That much is true, dear Patrick.”

 

Patrick felt like a fool for asking in the first place. He was a fool to seek approval of a hooker, and angry with himself for craving something he knew perfectly well Pete never could, or would give to him. He was paying for these lies, after all, _so why do I feel disappointed? I got what I wanted, I got everything I asked for, and wanting more is just stupid._    

 

“Mmmm, and I didn’t know you had such a _filthy_ mouth,” Pete interrupted his thoughts, and shot him another grin.

 

“Big words coming from a hooker.” Patrick absentmindedly wiped over his lips again.

 

“Oh, you don’t know all the dirty things my mouth can do yet,” Pete cooed, and the grin on his face widened.

 

Patrick scoffed. “I think I know pretty well what your mouth can do.”

 

Though he had to admit, the mere thought alone sent a shiver through his spine. Now that Pete was so close to him, still naked, with the last hint of a blush on his cheeks, the memories of his moans still in Patrick’s mind, the thoughts of what his lips could do became more and more appealing.

“Well, are you sure?” Pete asked playfully, and extended his hand towards Patrick’s crotch.

When Patrick didn’t object, he placed it there, pressing just lightly enough to be a frustrating tease.

 

“You’ve treated me so well…” Pete looked up to Patrick with expectant eyes. “Why don’t you let me _spoil_ you a little, too?”

 

He licked his lips and gave Patrick a poorly executed wink. It should have been silly, and it would have been ridiculous on anyone else. And yet as always, despite everything, Patrick couldn’t help but like it, and couldn’t help but feel himself grow hard again under the hooker’s hand. He felt a tinge of anger in his arousal; why could _this goddamn hooker_ play him so easily, turn him on with just a few words and a teasing hand?

 

Pete pressed his palm harder against the rough fabric of the pants. “Why don’t you get rid of these?”

 

Patrick wanted to object; he wanted to relish in the sight of Pete next to him a little longer. It had been so nice to simply touch him, without sex and other dirty intentions coming in between them for once.

 

Also, he didn’t want to admit how pathetically turned on and ready he already was, just from a light touch and from _blowing a hooker_. From blowing _Pete_ , which seemed even more wrong.

But the bigger part of him couldn’t resist the palm pressing against the aching hard-on trapped in his jeans and the wicked promise that a sinful mouth had just given him. And he couldn’t ignore the voice in his head that whispered _this is what Pete’s here for, sex, and sex alone. Not sappy cuddling_.

 

He stood up and hurried to get his pants off, and, after a moment of hesitation, his shirt as well. Fully naked now, Patrick crossed his arms over his chest and turned to the bed, but Pete didn’t move. Patrick considered motioning him to come over, or have him kneel on the floor – no, remembering the rough skin of Pete’s knees, he ruled that out.

“Don’t just stand there, Patrick. You’re worrying too much before we’ve even started.” Pete’s amused voice interrupted the silence. He extended his hand towards Patrick. “I want you closer. Want to have you on top of me. Please?”

 

This time, Patrick accepted the inviting hand, and followed the request. He straddled Pete’s hips, and leaned closer to him. For a moment, Pete seemed to hesitate, and a strange look passed over his face. But it was gone in an instant, and Patrick’s attention was brought back to his cock, now attended by skilled fingers of the hooker underneath him.

Pete looked at him with a smirk. “Since you’re so open to try something new today – why not use my lips for more than just the usual blowjob? You could fuck my mouth, Patrick…”

Patrick felt a wave of heat washing over him, leaving a blush burning on his face. This was something he had never dared to asked for. But now that Pete had suggested it and sparked his interest, Patrick felt tempted. The thought alone was mesmerizing.

“Well, what do you say? Come on, Patrick,” Pete hummed, “I know how much you love being in control. So, go on, use me, and let me show you how much of a good boy I can be for you…”

 

Yes, Pete was right, wasn’t that what he was here for? Now that he had explored whatever other side of him had recently surfaced, he could go back to receiving pleasure, go back to forgetting that what he wanted from Pete was more than that, _something Pete will never give me_.

 

Yes, anything to forget that.

 

Patrick nodded. Anything that would allow him to regain control over the situation, no, over _himself_ again. _Anything_ to remember what he was here for:  to stop thinking; to _forget_. Forget that Pete was here on paid time, forget that Pete would leave him, forget that Pete was more than the prostitute he pretended to be.

 

A mischievous glimmer lit up Pete’s eyes, before his face was overtaken by a neutral expression as he briefly stated his rules. “Don’t slap my face. No choking. You can pull my hair, but give me a little time first, I need to adjust to a dick down my throat.” 

Patrick just nodded again, already moving closer. He was straddling Pete’s chest now, already caught in the tempting thoughts of what Pete’s lips and tongue would soon do to him. In the back of his mind though, he noticed another strange expression as it passed over Pete’s face, and noticed him tensing up for a moment. Something about this seemed off.

A slight shudder ran through Patrick’s body, and the dawn of regrets already crept up on him. Maybe, this wasn’t a good idea –

 

“Patrick, I need a clear answer. Think you can do all that?”

 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Patrick replied, caught up between the feeling of Pete’s hand back on him, already slipping a condom over his hard cock (as if the hooker had known exactly that Patrick would say yes), and negotiating dirty business. “I, uh,” he cleared his throat, “I, uhm, I didn’t pay for this, though…?”

“We can figure that out later,” Pete said, despite the usual policy of _money first_.

_Then again,_ Patrick reminded himself _,he knows perfectly well that I’ll pay, everything he wants, all I have, everything._

 

But Patrick dropped the thought when Pete’s grip around his cock tightened, and he looked at Patrick with big, dark eyes. No hints of uneasiness were left in them, and his other hand was now on Patrick’s hips, urging him to move.

 

Patrick wouldn’t breach whatever boundaries were set, _and so what_ if Pete had seemed a little hesitant. It wasn’t Patrick’s job to look out for him, and last time he had asked one too many questions, Pete had been nothing but annoyed and almost offended.

After all, Pete himself had offered this, had given his consent, _so it must be fine with him, right?_ Pete told him that he knew his own limits, _so why should I have to worry?_ If Pete was never going to be more than a prostitute, _then I’ll treat him like the whore he pretends to be_.

 

He leaned forward, and ran his thumb over Pete’s mouth. “Open up for me, Pete.”

 

Pete parted his lips and licked over Patrick’s thumb resting against them, then gave it a small bite. For a moment, Patrick was tempted to push his finger in further, get a preview of what was about to happen. But the hooker already had his cock in his hand, and Patrick felt too impatient to draw this out any more. He had been basically hard ever since blowing Pete, and now that relief was so close and a gorgeous mouth so temptingly opened already, he couldn’t resist any longer.

He moved close enough for Pete to finally take him in, and whatever complaints he had vanished in an instant, words replaced with a quiet moan and the anticipation rewarded with the feeling of Pete’s mouth on him, hot, wet, so damn good.

Pete’s hand on his hip demanded him to move, set a rhythm that Patrick was eager to follow. It didn’t bother him that Pete set a pace; if anything, it added to the list of reasons why _this is okay, Pete’s fine with this, everything is like it always is_.

 

With each thrust Patrick became a little greedier, but by now he had had enough blowjobs from Pete to know that while Pete was skilled (had gathered plenty of experience with plenty of Johns preceding Patrick, had been _forced_ to –  no, no, _no_ –), he still had limits that Patrick certainly wasn’t interested in overstepping.

 

Yet Patrick couldn’t help but fist his hand into Pete’s hair to pull him closer, _just a little closer._

Patrick could feel the hand on his hip clutching into his skin. He wasn’t pushed away, and it wasn’t against the rules the hooker had set up. Yet somehow, it felt like the wrong thing to do, and an uneasy feeling tainted his arousal.

Patrick placed his hands on the headboard instead, clenched into fists. No, all that mattered was that his cock was inside of Pete’s mouth, the head now hitting the back of Pete’s throat, the faint hint of spit still present even through the condom. Pete’s pretty lips stretched around his dick, dark eyes and doubts hidden under dark lashes. The obscene sight of Pete’s face being used to his will, mixed with the feel of Pete’s hot mouth, talented tongue, tight throat – it was so fucking dirty, and wasn’t that exactly what Patrick had wanted?

 

Patrick didn’t want to think who, or what else had been down this throat (other men’s fingers and cocks, and the artificial taste of latex and other pharmaceutical inventions that had been on the tip of Pete’s tongue); _it’s just sex, and it means nothing_ , and Patrick didn’t want to think, didn’t want to think, _didn’t want to think_.

 

But the torn-up sound of Pete’s muffled breathing together with the slick sound of saliva and wet flesh wasn’t bringing him any of the usual joy. Seeing Pete struggle with handling the cock shoved down his throat wasn’t appealing at all. Seeing him looking so wrecked, with drool running down his chin, eyes watering and hands still clutched into his client’s hips, was just pathetic. It was obscene and dirty, but for all the wrong reasons.

Just like last time, power over Pete wasn’t bringing him any joy. Even Pete himself had offered this, consented to it, had made it look like it was fine with him, Patrick knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t possibly be.

 

It was just wrong, and suddenly, Patrick felt sick with disgust for himself. The warm feeling of arousal in his belly was replaced by an angry, burning stinging. No, he didn’t want to do this anymore – no, he _couldn’t_ do this anymore. Even if Pete could pretend, _wanted_ to pretend and just play the part of the hooker and ignore his own discomfort, Patrick couldn’t.

Patrick pulled out, a small cough escaping Pete’s mouth once Patrick’s cock had left it. Pete slapped his hand over his lips, trying to disguise another cough. A look of confusion spread over his face when Patrick made no attempt to continue. “What – hey, why did you stop? Something wrong?”

 

_Everything is wrong_ , was what Patrick wanted to say. He didn’t; instead, he just shook his head.

 

“Did I do something wrong?” Pete asked irritated, but he received no answer. He propped himself up on his elbows. “What is it, Patrick? Not satisfied with what I’m doing? Not good enough?” There was an unusual hint of desperation in his voice as he eyed Patrick, who felt even more sick at the tone of Pete’s voice. The same apologetic tone he had hated so much last time; the same tone that made _Patrick_ want to apologize.

“You’re fine, you did great, it’s – it’s me, and – it’s -” Patrick bit his lip to hold back a flood of incoherent words and stutters, and shook his head again. He reached for Pete’s face, and when he ran his thumb over his cheek, he felt the wet residue of tears.

Pete jerked away from the touch, and put his own hand over his cheeks to wipe away the stray tears. He somehow managed to do that without smearing his make-up any further – _well-practiced movements, done a thousand times before_ , Patrick couldn’t help but think with a shudder.

“Hey – look, it’s just a reflex, it’s nothing. No need to freak out.” Pete sent his client a cautious look, eyes narrowed and devoid of the usual confidence and playfulness. The expression that Patrick disliked so much, didn’t want to see on him. No, didn’t want to cause in the first place.

“I know,” Patrick mumbled, but still, it felt so damn wrong in all the wrong ways. And while Pete might have had a reasonable explanation for his tears, Patrick sure as hell couldn’t blame the tears stinging in his own eyes on any reflex.

 

“Then stop looking at me like that. I’m fine. You’re not hurting me, or whatever. I’m fine. I’m _fine_ , okay?”

Patrick didn’t want to point out that Pete had repeated the phrase “I’m fine” three times just now. “Okay, Pete,” he murmured in response, “I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t need your excuses, and I don’t – fuck, I don’t need any concern or pity from you.”

 

Patrick had no response but yet another pathetic nod. He didn’t want to offend Pete, and he didn’t want him to become any more agitated. He realized he was still on top of Pete, restricting his movements. He got up, and sat down next to him, knees drawn to his chest. He also realized he still had the condom on his softening cock, drenched in spit that rubbed off on his belly, but Patrick couldn’t be bothered to deal with either of those things for now.

His actions earned him another cautious look, before Pete’s face finally softened a little, and he shook his head slightly. “You’re being so fucking weird again today.” Pete sighed, and for a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more.

 

Instead, he too sat up, and just shrugged. “So, are you done with freaking out? Want me to finish this, or what?”

 

Patrick shook his head. “Not like that.”

 

Pete shrugged again. “Whatever you want to do, Patrick.”

 

With another shudder, Patrick thought of delicate skin against rough pavement, knees scraping over dirt as someone else twisted their fingers into black hair. Pulled Pete closer, too close, spit and tears running down his face, no. _No_. He wanted nothing like that. “I want to do something that’s comfortable for you. Just – just tell me, please.”

“ _Damnit_ , Patrick,” Pete hissed, sounding irritated. He remained silent for a moment, and Patrick could see the conflicting emotions on his face. “Well then, since you’re asking so politely, and since you suddenly _care_ so much – I want you to stop worrying. Lay down, spread your legs, and let me do my fucking job. How about that?”

 

Mumbling something he hoped sounded affirmative, Patrick followed Pete’s instructions. He lay down, and was rewarded with a surprised look. But Pete seemed to regain his usual attitude again; he shook his head, and sent Patrick a well-practiced smile.

“Good,” Pete cooed, and again, Patrick couldn’t suppress a flash of involuntary joy about the praise. “You’re so good to me today,” Pete continued, and reached for the condom on Patrick’s dick. He carefully removed it, and placed the now useless object on the nightstand. Patrick bit back a comment about tissues and trash. “And you’re so _obedient_ today,” Pete remarked, with a smug smile. “That’s not what I’m used to from you. But I might grow to like that side of you.”

“I’m not –“ Patrick didn’t finish his objection when Pete’s hand was back on his cock, fingers trailing over it in a light movement. He bit back a surprised moan, and Pete leaned closer again.

 

“Relax, babe. I got you.

 

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick replied instinctively, shuddering when he heard Gabe’s usual pet name from Pete’s mouth.

 

“Ah, I guess some things don’t change, hm?” Pete said with a grin. “No nicknames, a bossy attitude, and a hard cock for me…” He wrapped his fingers around Patrick’s growing erection, giving it a few more strokes.

 

“I told you,” Patrick tried to explain, though coherent thoughts and sentences became sparse with Pete’s hand on his dick. “I just – ah, I just don’t want to hurt you…”

 

Pete leaned forward, placing his other hand next to Patrick’s head to balance himself. “No one objects to getting head from me this much. I feel insulted!” He batted his eyes, and the sweetness was back in his voice. Though it couldn’t fully conceal that deep down, maybe this wasn’t as lighthearted as he wanted it to appear. “Don’t you like me anymore, Patrick? You betray me, you don’t want me to stay the night… Am I not good enough? Didn’t I try hard enough? You don’t trust me to give you a blowjob – do you think I’m broken? Weak? Not good enough? Don’t you want me anymore?”

“No, no, no.” Patrick vehemently shook his head. “You – fuck, Pete, of course I want you.”

“Really?” Pete’s grip around his cock tightened, and Patrick couldn’t help but let a loud moan escape his mouth, along with another “yes, I want you, Pete, I always want you -!”

 

_Fuck_. Patrick slapped his hand over his mouth; it was no use. The words were already out, impossible to take back. Embarrassment flooded him, and he could feel a blush spread on his face. He nervously glanced over to Pete, expecting an ugly laugh and even uglier words.

None of that came. The small smile on Pete’s lips wasn’t the usual smug grin. It looked out of place, almost a little sad, matching the thoughtful look in his eyes. It seemed that Patrick had given him the right answer, but for whatever reason, that hadn’t caused the right reaction in Pete.

There was no time to overanalyze this any further, because Pete turned his head away and reached for a new condom from the nightstand. He fumbled with the plastic wrapping, then rolled the rubber over Patrick’s cock.

 

“Can I put your dick in my mouth without causing another meltdown?”

 

“Sure,” was all Patrick could bring out in response. He bit back a _please_ , and another _I want you, Pete, want, want, want_.

 

Pete sent him one last look Patrick couldn’t quite place, then tightened his grip around Patrick’s dick, and took him in his mouth.

Suction, friction, spit and a talented tongue were working around his cock, and Patrick couldn’t hold back for long. Any rational thoughts left his brain, and all he wanted was to give in to temptation, finally reach that sweet relief he had been longing for.

He soon came with another pathetic-sounding whimper falling from his mouth, though at least this time, no embarrassing words slipped through.

Through his post-orgasm haze, he barely noticed how Pete slid the used condom off his cock, reached for the other used one on the nightstand, and left to dispose of both in the kitchen.

 

When Pete came back, he seemed more composed than before. He lay down next to Patrick, on his stomach again, face turned towards him and bruises and emotions hidden out of sight. “Well, I’m glad I could finally find a way to satisfy your needs,” he said, followed by a small laugh.

“You didn’t have to let me fuck your mouth,” Patrick mumbled, though he didn’t feel like having a serious conversation about any of this right now. His brain was still in a haze and his thoughts too clouded. “You… you didn’t seem to like that.”

His objection only earned him another laugh from the hooker. “Well, _you_ seemed to be pretty into it at first,” he observed, “and it’s my job to look out for my clients, help them discover new pleasures. Can’t afford to bore you, right?”

Pete gave him another smile, but it looked as fake as his sickly-sweet voice sounded. “And I don’t want to disappoint you, Patrick. I don’t want you to think I’m weak. I want to _please_ you, show you how much of a good boy I can be for you! And I don’t want you to break my heart again by sleeping with someone else.”

Patrick just shook his head. “Look, I’m really not in the mood to talk. Please, be quiet for a minute.” With embarrassment, he noticed how weak his voice sounded, and it came out more desperate than intended.

 

Patrick didn’t feel like having lies ruin this moment. He didn’t want to feel the sting of disappointment they sent through his body. He didn’t want to hear the chorus in his mind that screamed _you will never mean enough to Pete to break his heart – that’s the part of his body you will never be able to touch, ever_.

  

“Not fond of talking today,” Pete repeated his words from earlier, and sent Patrick a curious look. Then, his expression softened. “Hey, if you don’t wanna talk, go on and pet my hair again. Spoil me a little more, hm?”

 

Patrick stretched out his arm to place his hand on Pete’s head, and gently ran his fingers through his hair.

 

Again, Pete closed his eyes, and leaned into the touch. “Oh, you _are_ obedient today, aren’t you,” he remarked, but Patrick didn’t object. He felt the same warmth and quiet intimacy from before, and a weird sense of pride. After all, Pete had _asked_ him to touch him, something he usually didn’t do outside of sex.

 

It felt so much better than each time Patrick had selfishly dug his hands into him, greedily and without care.

 

He wanted more, so much more of this. He felt a sting of jealousy, desperation, and possessiveness. He wanted Pete all to himself. Wanted to keep him, and wanted to keep him away from the street.

He wanted to own this side of Pete, every side of Pete, _all_ of Pete, no matter what it cost him – money, or everything else. Patrick was willing to pay.

Even though he knew it was impossible, knew that Pete would never be his, Patrick also knew he had the power to prolong the inevitable. He could keep Pete away from everyone else for just a little longer. Not forever, but at least for this night, which was better than nothing. No one would hurt him here, no other John, and Patrick wouldn’t, either. Never again. He would be a better person, better than all the other Johns.

 

Money had failed to buy him control. But maybe, now it could buy some safety, protection, power to keep the bad things away. Money couldn’t buy him _Pete_ , but it could buy him Pete’s well-being for tonight.

He couldn’t save Pete, but he could protect him, keep him sheltered from everyone else. No more unwanted hands hurting him, no more strangers using and abusing his body, no more other Johns, alternative versions of _Patrick_ hurting Pete.

 

Patrick cleared his throat. “Hey, Pete. I – I changed my mind.”

 

Pete kept his eyes closed, but nodded. “Yeah? About what?”

 

The familiar sense of panic crept up in Patrick’s mind.

This was his last chance to back out. He could still shove Pete out of his bed and out of his apartment, out of his _life_ forever. He should do what was right, what anyone normal would do, and finally get rid of Pete. He should yell at him to go and leave; the hooker would shrug, and go, never to return. Once the door would close behind Pete, maybe the door in Patrick’s mind would shut as well, and he could finally forget him. Forget his smile, forget his laugh, forget his lies and the sad, sad truth, forget Pete forever.

Patrick could live the rest of his life without this hooker, could maybe have perfectly fine, normal relationships with perfectly fine, normal people like Gabe, and forget this whole mess forever.

 

Hadn’t it seemed so easy when Gabe had offered that? Then why did it seem impossible now?

 

He shouldn’t be wanting this. He shouldn’t be wanting Pete. It was so wrong, in every way, just so fucking wrong.

 

But he could still feel how Pete leaned into his touch, eyes closed and his guard down for once. Could see Pete stretched out on his bed, all naked and pretty. Couldn’t forget about the infuriating reminder of broken rules and broken trust that blemished Pete’s skin. And couldn’t deny anymore that Pete had become more (so much more, and maybe a little too much) to him than just some pretty, anonymous, dehumanized prostitute.

Right now, behind his cracked mask of a smug, confident hooker, Pete just looked so vulnerable. The sickening images in his head and the words from last time buzzing through Patrick’s mind blurred together. Pete on his knees for someone else, Pete getting hurt, Pete in pain, Pete, Pete, _Pete –_ _Please don’t go, please don’t get hurt; I want you to stay safe, please, Pete, please, please –_ and deep down, Patrick knew it was too late.

 

“I changed my mind,” he repeated. “Stay the night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, and in case anyone couldn't tell, this is finally the end of Patrick being able to keep a (somewhat) neutral distance. From now on, we can finally focus on all the angst that Patrick's newfound feelings bring with them -- oh, and plenty of angst there will be.  
> Next chapter will be extra long - there's still smut, but the boys will have to do some talking... ;)
> 
> Stay tuned, and as always, thank you so, so much for reading. Please consider leaving a comment, it would mean a lot to me!~


	7. I Don't Owe You Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete stays the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey there, look who is back! I actually had this done a while ago but didn't want to let it get lost among the BBB stories... I hope you're all ready for some lengthy ANGST
> 
> Also, won't you look at that, the daily inktober challenge drives me to draw self-indulgent fanart for all my fics, so... There's that. Enjoy, I guess. 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being a patient Beta reader!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155712566@N06/37782668926/in/dateposted/)

 

 

Patrick found himself in his bed together with a pretty hooker, and the dawn of regret settling in his chest.

 

_Stay the night_. The words were out, impossible to take back.

Pete opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at him with a slight hint of confusion on his face. “What?”

 

“You heard me,” Patrick said softly, “I want you to stay the night. I – I’ll pay you, of course.” He withdrew his hand from Pete’s hair; the mood was tainted by the pesky reminder of money and the nature of their arrangement, and the intimate gesture didn’t seem appropriate anymore.

 

Pete sat up, and drew his knees to his chest. The defensiveness extended to the now cautious expression on his face, and Patrick couldn’t help but notice that Pete had positioned himself to be just out of reach of his client’s hands. “Really, now? Why the sudden change of heart? Was my blowjob _that_ good? Want to go for another round of fucking later? Suddenly in the mood for some long, kinky sexual fantasy -?”

 

“No,” Patrick cut in. “Nothing like that. I just… I just want you to stay.”

 

Pete sent him a cautious look. “Really,” he said in disbelief. “That’s it? You just want me to stay all of a sudden?”

 

“Is that so weird?”

 

“I’m just trying to find out why you’re keeping me _now_. You’ve declined the offer every other time. Didn’t you tell me earlier today that you didn’t want me for the whole night?”

 

Pete’s distrust gave Patrick a wary feeling. The relaxed atmosphere from before was gone, ruined by Patrick’s clumsy words and replaced again by the usual distance.

_Like it should be_ , Patrick’s mind scolded him. _He has as little reason to trust you as you have for trusting him_.

Yet despite that, Patrick wished he could earn at least a little bit of Pete’s trust, and could show Pete he would never hurt him again. That there was no need to be afraid. That he was worthier of Pete than whoever else was picking him up from the streets. He wished that there was no need for that much caution in the first place.

Patrick sighed, and decided that the situation called for some clothes. It felt surreal to sit next to a naked prostitute, and casually discuss sexual arrangements and Pete’s underlying fear of his client being a pervert, potential danger, serial killer, or whatever the hooker might suspect him to be. Besides, Patrick grew increasingly cold from just sitting around naked, the last bit of sweat on his skin not helping. With another sigh, Patrick stood up, and went over to the drawer. He could feel Pete’s eyes still on him, waiting for an answer.

 

“You were right. Maybe I’m just open to new things today.” It came out less light-hearted and nonchalant that Patrick wanted, and he was glad he wasn’t facing Pete right now. He could feel his face heating up, the blush giving away the obvious lie even more.

“So, why not? Just be all mine for tonight, like you offered.” Patrick tried his best not to sound desperate, because deep down, that was exactly what he wanted – to have Pete, _all_ of Pete to himself.

Even though he knew it was impossible, no matter how much of his money, no matter how much of his heart he offered. Both were worthless. Neither could just buy him any of the real Pete.

 

But simply keeping him away from the filth of the street and the filth of other Johns as awful and dirty as Patrick made it worth it. Patrick shuddered when he recalled the teeth marks on Pete’s collarbone, the unwanted hickeys, the sickening imprint someone else left on his skin against his will. And who knew what other invisible stains and unknown pain they left.

 

Patrick pulled out the next best shirt he could find, and whatever underwear fell into his hands first. A little more confident now that he wasn’t so exposed anymore, he turned around to the silent hooker on his bed. He could do this, he _had_ to do this. He couldn’t let Pete go.

 

“So, will you stay?”

 

Pete hesitated, and for one last moment, Patrick regretted everything. Hoped that Pete would say no, would leave and leave him behind, forget that he had ever asked him to stay.

 

But no such luck.

 

The usual grin spread over Pete’s face, and replaced his thoughtful expression. “How could I object?” He batted his eyelashes, and his usual smugness returned. “A whole night with you, Patrick? You really are spoiling me rotten today, hm?”

“And how much is spoiling you going to cost me?” Patrick inquired, knowing the answer already: not enough money, and too much of everything else.

Payment, right. Patrick was glad he had withdrawn more cash from the ATM than usual. Pete got out of bed, took a moment to stretch his limbs, then turned back to Patrick. “Let’s discuss business, shall we?”

A weird feeling of relief flooded Patrick, replacing whatever regrets and doubts were left – Pete would stay, wouldn’t get hurt, _Pete is safe_.Patrick nodded, and went into the living room to grab his wallet, followed by Pete. “Well, how much?”

 

Pete eyed his client with the last hint of doubts. “You sure don’t want anything special? Any kinks, any dirty little secrets I need to know about? No need to be ashamed. I have limits, but I’m open to negotiate.” He tilted his head, waiting for an answer.

 

Patrick really wasn’t interested in whatever weird fetishes Pete’s other clients were into, and whatever absurd things they wanted, _forced_ him to do for money – no, that wasn’t a mental image he needed right now. “I told you. I don’t want anything special. Nothing kinky. I just want you.” It came out as pathetic as Patrick had anticipated, but at least, Pete seemed to finally believe him. The smile was back on his lips, matching the playfulness in his eyes.

 

“You want me, hm? Oh, don’t worry, you can have me, Patrick. I told you, I’d love to be all yours…”

 

Pete named his price, and Patrick took out the cash, only feeling slightly bad about spending so much of it at once. The money had been intended for Pete, anyway.

 

“That’s a lot of money to casually carry around in your wallet,” Pete observed. “You just happened to have that with you?”

 

Patrick didn’t answer. He just silently handed the money to Pete, who discreetly counted it.

 

The situation was grotesque. A naked hooker in his living room, with a bunch of cash in his hand. Pete’s nakedness suddenly struck him as wrong. It wasn’t the way Patrick wanted this. He’d had enough of the hooker games, and he didn’t feel like having the whole evening be an absurd, twisted sexual fantasy. “You don’t need to stay naked,” he mumbled. “You can go get dressed.”

“Oh, come on,” Pete laughed, and shook his head. “You’ve seen me without clothes plenty of times before, Patrick. I think we’re past the point of acting coy.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t you want to keep me like this, naked and ready? That way, you can bend me over the kitchen table whenever you want…”

Part of Patrick couldn’t deny that the thought of Pete staying like this for him was tempting. All naked and ready to do whatever he wanted him to. But _forcing_ him into this situation seemed wrong. “It’s not about acting coy,” Patrick retorted indignantly. “And I would prefer my kitchen table for eating, not fucking. You can always just undress again. We have plenty of time today. Just do whatever you feel comfortable with for now.”

Pete shrugged. “Fine,” he scoffed, but still turned around and made his way to the bathroom. Patrick was glad he hadn’t just accepted Pete’s lies again without questioning anything, and that given the option, Pete actually went for something he felt more comfortable with. Even if that didn’t fit the image he sold.

 

Patrick used the opportunity to get fully dressed himself, and retrieve his tumbler from the nightstand. If the whole evening went like that, he certainly needed another drink. None of this was going according to plan, and Patrick felt like he needed a little help to get through this. He poured more whiskey into his glass while he waited for Pete to exit the bathroom.

 

When Pete came out of the bathroom, Patrick had to admit it wasn’t much of an improvement. Back in the dark alleyway, accompanied by dark temptations and dirty intentions, the clothes fit in well. But now, in the ordinary surroundings of Patrick’s living room, they looked out of place. Pants too tight to be comfortable, a shirt too small to really hide much (aside from the bruises, Patrick couldn’t help but notice – those were carefully covered by fabric now), and everything was too calculated for someone else’s taste.

Also, the whole ensemble looked too cold, now that Patrick thought of it. It certainly wasn’t appropriate for the rapidly shortening, rainy days of autumn.

The stupid eyeliner Pete insisted on wearing (and that, Patrick was sure, he must have touched up in the bathroom just now) didn’t help either. It just looked ridiculous.

If the circumstances weren’t so sad, Patrick almost would have laughed. Instead, he suppressed a shudder, and tried to sort out his thoughts. He eyed Pete’s short-sleeved shirt again. “Aren’t you cold?”

 

A surprised look crossed Pete’s face for a moment, before he replaced it with a small smile as he shrugged. “Nah. I’m fine.”

 

Patrick held back a harsh reply, and took a sip of his drink instead. “Still, you should wear a jacket. It’s getting colder.”

 

Pete rolled his eyes in response. “Thanks so much for your concern, Patrick. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

 

 

Silence settled between them, and Patrick felt increasingly awkward. He took another sip from his drink, and desperately combed his mind for anything to say. It didn’t help that Pete seemed merely amused by his client being so uncomfortable. He didn’t take his eyes off Patrick, and his grin only got wider the more time that passed. Patrick was sure that Pete could offer a dozen ideas of which dirty things to do next, and that he had the matching words, too. It looked like he was just waiting for Patrick to give in. Until then, Pete seemed content with just watching him suffer through the painful awkwardness of being at a loss of what to do.

 

All of this had been much easier with Gabe. He had done most of the talking, and easily guided Patrick through the evening. All Patrick had to do was to nod along, follow Gabe’s lead, and ignore any second thoughts.

_Of course, things would be different with a hooker. Pete isn’t here as your date, he’s here because you paid him to be_ , Patrick’s mind chided him, ignored like always.

 

A nagging sensation in his stomach gave him an idea. Usually, he would offer Pete something to drink, but now that Pete would stay the night, just a drink would not do.Patrick gathered whatever courage and confidence he had left, and spoke up. “Hey, Pete, uhm. Have you eaten dinner yet?”

 

“No,” Pete replied, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid my mouth has been too busy with other things.” He grinned again and licked his lips, and Patrick pushed away the mental image of himself, or _someone else,_ using Pete’s mouth. _Focus, focus_.

 

“We’re going to eat something, then,” Patrick decided, glad that he figured out what to do next.

 

Pete shook his head. “That’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

 

“I can’t keep you here all night without some food. You have to get hungry sooner or later.” Patrick turned around, and made his way to the kitchen, followed by a reluctant Pete.

 

Patrick recalled how he had skipped his last meal for finishing up work early, then had traded food in favor of liquid courage to negotiate sucking off a hooker.

And said hooker now stood in his kitchen, looking at him with narrowed eyes, bound to stay with him here, autonomy traded for a measly amount of money. The least Patrick felt he could do was to pretend not to be a terrible host.

He didn’t want to ask why Pete hadn’t eaten yet. He suspected that if he hadn’t offered, Pete probably would not have asked for it.

 

Come to think of it, he had _never_ asked for anything to eat, and _never_ accepted any offers of food.

 

Patrick placed his glass on the kitchen counter, and couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over to him. He remembered all too well the feeling of Pete’s hard collar bones under his lips, the sharp hip bones pressing against him. The ribcage under his hands when he let his fingers wander over it bone by bone, each of them outlined against the skin. Each bump of Pete’s spine.

The longer he thought about it, the more Patrick had to admit to himself: it was a body showing the first hints of the harshness of the life Pete must be leading. Dangerously close to withering away, starting to fade just slightly, like some of the tattoos decorating it.

He assumed Pete had probably always been naturally skinny, and sure, upon the first glance, seen with hungry eyes clouded by desire and ignorance, Pete still looked _fine_ , gorgeous as always. But at second glance, tiny flaws became noticeable; and since Patrick had more than a thousand glances at each part of Pete’s body, it became harder and harder to ignore the obvious.

 

With a sigh, Patrick crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I can’t force you to eat, but I want to offer it, okay?”

 

“Why?” Pete seemed irritated, and he too crossed his arms.

 

“You’re my guest.”

 

“That’s an interesting euphemism, Patrick,” Pete snickered, mockery tainting his ugly laugh. “Do you pay all your guests to fuck you?”

 

A snarky reply was already on Patrick’s tongue, but he hesitated. Didn’t Pete have a point? Was he really a guest? Guests were here of their own free will, upon an invitation. Someone like Gabe was a guest, and Pete was a prostitute, forced to stay, bribed with money –

 

“Hey. Patrick.”

 

When Patrick looked up, Pete eyed him an irritated expression. “What’s the matter with you lately?”

 

“It’s nothing. I was just lost in thought for a moment.”

 

“Unpleasant ones, I assume,” Pete said, before sighing. “You know, stop worrying so much. You’re just hiring a hooker for the night, nothing special. You’re neither the first, nor the last person to do so. It’s no big deal. Stop overthinking everything, okay?”

 

Patrick bit back that it was already too late for that. He could have pretended and just nod, but he didn’t feel like lying to Pete again. He knew he wouldn’t stop worrying anytime soon.  

 

When he got no response, Pete sighed again, though he didn’t seem keen to discuss the topic any further. “Let’s eat something if it means so much to you.”

 

“I told you, you don’t have to. I don’t want to force you, or make you uncomfortable.”

 

“I’m a big boy, I can decide for myself if I want to eat or not.” Pete sent him a wink, and Patrick was glad for the silly gesture that took away some of the tension. “The offer still stands, right?”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Patrick went over to his fridge and opened it, suddenly very glad that after the embarrassing experience with Gabe, he had actually had the motivation to go grocery shopping. Half-heartedly, sure, but it still provided him with an unusual amount of food in his fridge.

Patrick contemplated what to make. Something quick like a sandwich would be the easiest option. But he thought back to Pete, who likely had not eaten much today. Not a proper meal, at least; Patrick suppressed a shudder, and suppressed the thoughts of drugs and dicks shoved down Pete’s throat. No, he would have to provide Pete with something better. “How about scrambled eggs?”

 

“You wanna _cook_?” Pete sounded genuinely surprised. “No need for all that effort.”

“It’s no big deal,” Patrick said absent-mindedly, as he tried to gather all the ingredients. He even managed to produce some still edible looking vegetables from his fridge.

Pete leaned against the kitchen table, and eyed him with curiosity. “I didn’t expect you to _cook_ , Patrick. You never fail to surprise me.”

 

It would have been the usual playful banter, if not for the thoughtfulness in Pete’s voice that Patrick had rarely heard before. He could feel the first hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks pink. He was glad that he was going through his kitchen drawers, and therefore not facing Pete right now. The last thing he needed was Pete treating him like some inept child. “Are you saying I can’t cook?”

“That’s not what I said,” Pete replied cautiously.

“Care to explain what you meant then, Pete?” Patrick inquired, curious about the meaning behind Pete’s remark. He finally found the cutting board he had been looking for, as well as the right-sized pan.

 

Pete remained silent in the meantime, carefully eyeing his client and seemingly considering whether to continue or stop talking. To Patrick’s surprise, he settled for talking.

 

“I’ve been in your kitchen and seen the insides of your fridge plenty of times now, Patrick. It’s usually pretty empty. You barely have any groceries at home, ever. And just now, it took you a while to find all the items in your very own kitchen, because you rarely use it, and therefore don’t know where you put anything. It’s obvious you don’t cook that often.”

 

Patrick looked at him a little dumbfounded, before heat flooded his face, and anger pooled in his stomach. Anger at Pete’s boldness, but first and foremost, anger at how eerily _right_ Pete was.

He felt exposed. Pete not only knew about what things he did in bed, but also got a peek into a part of his personal life he never wanted to give him. He already knew all his dirty little secrets in bed, and apparently, outside of the bedroom too.

He couldn’t help but wonder what else Pete had noticed. How many other weak moments he had seen, how many other embarrassing habits he had memorized, what else he had witnessed.

 

Apparently, Patrick wasn’t the only one who found the first flaws in his companion.  

 

“Well,” Patrick said through gritted teeth, trying his best not to seem too bothered by Pete’s harsh observations. “I don’t have much time to cook. I’m a busy guy.”

That was neither an explanation nor an excuse, but Patrick didn’t feel like he owed any of that to anyone. He neither had owed it to Gabe, and certainly not to a _prostitute._

More spiteful answers and harsh remarks bubbled up in him, and for a second, he just wanted to yell at Pete to shut up.

 

Lies and silence had been a lot easier to handle. Dirty words and sweet moans were a lot more pleasurable to hear.

 

“I bet you are.” Pete shrugged, and stayed silent. He must have noticed Patrick’s poorly disguised anger. Patrick saw him tense up slightly, and take a small step back, hands raised and eyes narrowed. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry.”

 

Regret flooded Patrick, replacing his former anger. “It’s okay,” He said, self-deprecation swinging in his voice. “After all, it’s not like you’re completely wrong,”

He looked away, waiting for another jab. Pete stayed silent though, and while he stared at the food on his kitchen counter, a sudden realization settled in Patrick’s chest. “What about you, Pete? Do you have a place to stay? You’re not… Homeless, are you?”

 

“I’m not homeless, no,” Pete simply replied. He turned his head away, clearly unwilling to give away more information. It didn’t seem like a topic he wanted to talk about, so Patrick thought it was best to drop the conversation for now.

 

“Hey. It’s probably boring to watch me cook. Go do whatever you want, you don’t need to stand here.”

 

“Fine.” Pete turned around, ready to leave the kitchen, and ready to escape more unwanted questions. Patrick had already accepted that they would go back to being silent, when Pete spoke up again: “How about some music, Patrick?”

 

“Music?” Patrick repeated in surprise. It was the first time Pete expressed active interest in that. Or active interest in anything, really. Usually, he was content with being silent, didn’t ask or expect anything, and seemed to simply retreat into his own head, lost in whatever thoughts he had (or didn’t have – maybe, there was just white noise caused by white pills).

Sure, Pete had eyed the instruments and records more than once, but had never inquired to use any of it.

 

Pete was already in the living room, talking in a louder voice to ensure he could still be heard.

“You have all this fancy equipment. Must have been expensive.” A pause. “And you have a pretty impressive record collection, too.” It was a neutral statement, but the words made Patrick feel slightly uneasy. Suddenly, it felt like he was flaunting his money in Pete’s face – who had to sell his body to strangers just to make ends meet. _Strangers like me_.

 

The uneasy feeling only got worse, and Patrick bit his lip. He reminded himself that he had worked hard for all of this. He hadn’t been _born_ into wealth, he had _earned_ everything through hard work and making use of his talent and abilities.

 

But what about Pete? There must have been a reason he became a hooker. It probably hadn’t been his dream in life to fuck strangers for money _._ He must have had other goals and ambitions. He surely hadn’t gotten those tattoos just for Patrick to drool over, and the way he carried himself, gathered people’s attention – it surely hadn’t always been just to attract Johns. His conversations couldn’t always have been restricted to dirty talk and self-deprecating insults. There were more words and stories inside of him. Patrick though back to the way Pete had eyed his instruments (and still did, whenever he thought Patrick wouldn’t notice).

 

What had happened to that version of Pete?

 

 

He was determined to figure out Pete’s story. Peel back the layer of silence and lies, and see what was behind the smooth, pretty surface of a hooker. Get more answers to the questions that kept buzzing through his brain, and that he knew he wouldn’t be able to push back anymore. Why Pete was taking pills. Why he was walking the streets for money. Who Pete really was – fuck, if _Pete_ that was even his real name. Patrick had never dared to ask, but now that Pete was here, _all mine for the night_ , he would finally –

 

Pete’s voice interrupted his train of thoughts.

“Patrick. Do I get an answer to my question?” Pete was standing in the doorway, sending him a curious look. “I just want to know if I can use your stereo. Don’t worry, I won’t touch anything without permission. And I won’t _steal_ anything. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Embarrassed at these accusations, Patrick shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Just be careful.”

He couldn’t deny that he felt slightly uncomfortable at having someone rummage through his belongings. Then again, how was he supposed to win Pete’s trust if he couldn’t even trust Pete himself? Besides, Pete had had countless occasions to steal from him. If he had wanted to steal anything, he would have done it long ago.

 

_If I can trust him enough to shove my cock down his throat, I can entrust him with this, too_ , Patrick thought to himself, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. He decided to stop worrying for now, and concentrate on cooking. With embarrassment, he recalled Pete’s sharp observations from earlier; he really didn’t cook much, and Patrick silently hoped he wouldn’t fuck up something as simple as throwing eggs and vegetables into a pan. That would be all new kinds of humiliation in front of the hooker.

 

Over the sound of sizzling food, he could hear the soft sound of music coming from the living room. The volume was turned down, but Patrick was able to notice that Pete almost never listened to anything for more than a minute. He seemed determined to get a glance into everything, or maybe, he was just overwhelmed and couldn’t decide on what to listen to.

Soft music, the smell of food, and Pete here with him, sheltered and safe… It was almost homely.

 

_Yeah, another nice layer of all new lies and delusions_ , Patrick thought to himself with bitterness. He bit his lip, and tried to fight the new, too good feeling in his chest. Pete was still here as a _hooker_ , and forgetting that, _wanting_ to forget that was foolish and dangerous. _You should’ve invited Gabe if you wanted to play boyfriend_ , he scolded himself, though he knew that even if he had, it wouldn’t have caused the same emotions he felt right now. Which was yet another alarming thing Patrick tried to ignore.

Much to his relief, he managed to finish cooking without burning anything, and the result looked okay in Patrick’s eyes once arranged on two plates. He placed everything on the kitchen table, then went over to the living room for Pete.

 

Pete was sitting in front of the stereo, an almost comically concentrated look on his face as he eyed a booklet. In the short time he had been there, he had already managed to make a small mess, different CDs piled everywhere around him. It took a lot of Patrick’s self-restraint to stay calm and not scold him for that; he managed to just let out a small sigh, and said: “Hey, Pete. Uhm, food is ready.”

Pete’s head jolted up, and for a moment, he seemed embarrassed, as if Patrick had interrupted a private moment. The look quickly passed, immediately replaced with a small smile and a nod as Pete pressed the pause button, then got up. “Yeah, I’m coming. Sorry, should I -?” He gestured towards the records scattered around him, but Patrick just shook his head. “Later. Let’s eat first.”

Patrick made a mental note to put the records away himself, just to make sure that everything would be back to where it belonged. He trusted Pete not to steal anything, but he didn’t trust him with tidiness and organization.

 

They sat down at the table, Pete eyeing the food with curiosity before taking a bite.

 

“I hope it’s okay?” Patrick inquired, another wave of insecurity rolling over him. Goddammit, what was wrong with him? It wasn’t like Pete was here for great food, or to judge his behavior as a host.

 

Pete rolled his eyes in response. “’s fine, Patrick,” he said through a mouthful of food.

 

Patrick wrinkled his nose. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

 

Pete sent him a grin (with his mouth still full), followed by a small laugh when Patrick sent him another sharp look. He thankfully swallowed before speaking up again. “It tastes good, okay? It’s not as good as having your cock in my mouth, but it’s close.” He took another big bite, accompanied by another big smile when Patrick looked away, red-faced and too startled to come up with a witty reply.

 

“So, this whole stuff crammed in there,” Pete made a vague gesture towards the living room, “isn’t just for show, right? What exactly is it that you do?”

 

“Right now, I work mostly as a producer.” Patrick paused. “And I’m planning to get a better place, too. This apartment is just meant to be temporary.”

 

Pete nodded, his face revealing nothing. “You must be pretty good.”

 

“I am.” The answer came with no hesitation. Music was the one (and right now, admittedly pretty much the _only_ ) part of Patrick’s life he felt confident and secure in. “I just love what I do. Creating music is the only thing I ever wanted to do in my life, and being able to do that every day, to be able to share my passion and my art with other people – it’s my dream come true.”

 

He looked over to Pete, only to find that Pete was looking at him with slight surprise. “Wow. I think that’s the first time I’ve seen a genuine smile from you, Patrick.”

 

Reflexively, Patrick put a hand over his mouth. He hadn’t even noticed that he was smiling.

 

“You should smile like that for me sometimes.” Pete sent him a wink. “After all, doing _me_ should make you happy, too!”

 

In lieu of an answer, Patrick just averted his eyes.

 

Being with Pete made him feel a lot of things – lust and hunger for his body, longing for Pete’s touches, desperation and agony when he reminded himself that all of this might be nothing but a lie, a _product_ , something he had to share with countless other men just like the rest of the hooker’s body.

Oh, sure, there was a feeling of pride when Pete was moaning his name. The feeling of satisfaction when Pete got hard from _his_ touches, _his_ hands, _his_ cock, and the even greater sense of satisfaction when all these things made Pete squirm and beg for more, more, more of Patrick. A surge of possessiveness, content and relief when Pete got off, the nature of their arrangement maybe briefly forgotten during his orgasm.

Not to mention, the recent chant of worries and questions that had joined all these troubled thoughts. The desperate hope that Pete would be careful, would be treated well by his other clients, would be safe, even though one look at Pete’s bruised body and his tired eyes clearly showed he wasn’t. The pure anger when he had seen the injury on his collarbone.

The nagging frustration about whatever drugs Pete was taking behind closed doors, bought with Patrick’s money. The gut-wrenching thought that even though Pete was always using condoms with him, it didn’t mean Pete was healthy. Even if he was, what if someone disrespected that rule, just took whatever they wanted, held him down and – no, no, Patrick didn’t even want to think about any of this right now.

Another smile crept on Patrick’s face, born from bitterness this time.

 

_Happy?_  

 

That was not the word he would use to describe how it felt to be with the hooker.  

 

 

They continued to eat in silence. Patrick was too caught up in his own thoughts, thankful that Pete didn’t talk either. Patrick relaxed a little once they were done, and he could busy himself with cleaning up. Though he refrained from commenting on it, he was glad to find Pete had emptied his plate completely. He declined Pete’s offer to help, but contrary to his expectations, Pete didn’t go back into the living room. He remained seated at the table, watching Patrick put away the plates, still lost in his own thoughts.

Once Patrick was done, he grabbed the almost forgotten whiskey from the counter. He took a small sip, knowing that he would need more courage for the questions he was about to ask. Pete turned his head when he noticed Patrick sitting down at the table again, and it looked like his attention was back to his client when the usual grin appeared back on his lips. “My, my, Patrick, again with that worried face? Haven’t I just told you that a smile suits you much better? Tell me, how can I help you to stop those unhappy thoughts, hm?”

The grin widened, but Patrick was not in the mood for playful banter. He set his tumbler down, sighed, and gathered his courage to look into Pete’s eyes as he spoke up.

 

“Why do you do this, Pete?”

 

The hooker’s grin faltered a little, and he furrowed his brows in slight confusion. “Why do I do _what_ , Patrick?”

 

“Why… why do you sell yourself. Why do you fuck strangers for money. You –“ Patrick’s voice broke off. "Just, _why_?”

 

“Why?” Pete repeated, not even attempting to keep out the scorn and derision out of his voice. “ _Why_ , Patrick? Well, because I need the money. As simple as that.”

 

“But…” Patrick started; and he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Didn’t even know if he was prepared for the answer. A million unsaid things buzzed through his mind, but Pete chided in before Patrick could properly form his thoughts into words.

 

“You’re a smart guy, Patrick, and you should know when to stop asking questions. There are certain words you’ll never be able to buy from me, ever.”

 

Patrick clutched his hands into fists. No, Pete didn’t understand. Patrick didn’t want to _buy_ these words, he wanted Pete to give them to him on his own. Out of trust, and out of the need to open up. He wanted Pete to see him as more than just a faceless client, more than some worthless, meaningless stranger.

Disappointment crept up on Patrick, soon turning into anger, which turned into harsh words he couldn’t hold back any longer. “You need the money for your pills. For whatever drugs you take?” Patrick hesitated, but he had said too much already, so he decided to go on. “For your _addiction_ , right?”

It came out with more bitterness behind the words than he had intended, and Pete flinched, visibly uncomfortable by the question. For a moment, helplessness and vulnerability were visible on his face, before it was overtaken by anger. “Oh yeah? _You_ want to lecture me on addiction? That’s fucking rich coming from someone like you, Patrick.” There was pure venom Pete’s voice, and he flicked his fingers against Patrick’s tumbler harsh enough to almost knock it over. Some of the whiskey spilled on the table, but Pete paid no attention to that. “How many of these did you have today?”

 

Taken by surprise, Patrick furrowed his brows in irritation. “What does it matter? Don’t try to change the subject.” His tone was stern, but weirdly enough, that made his words feel even more weak. Irritated, he added: “I can have a drink whenever I want. I’m a responsible adult, Pete. It’s not like I’m _drunk_.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re not sober, either. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you sober after I step out of the shower. By then, you always have a drink in your hand, and for such a tiny dude, you sure can knock back a lot of them. And today –“ Pete hesitated, and looked away. “Today, I could smell the alcohol on you already when you picked me up.” The last sentence came out with less anger behind it; with surprise, Patrick registered same hint of bitterness in it that had been in his own voice.

 

“That was an exception.” Again, Patrick felt that his defensiveness had the exact opposite effect. The harder he tried to fight Pete, the harsher his tone got, the more he felt like he was losing. _Like always_. This was yet another game Pete knew better than Patrick, and that realization mixed with Pete’s words gave him a nauseous feeling.

 

“Careful, Patrick – each other time will just be an _exception_ , too. Until one day you wake up and suddenly, you realize it became the rule. And then, it’ll be too late.” Pete’s voice was unusually quiet. There was even more bitterness behind these words, and Patrick knew they came from a dark place inside Pete’s mind. It was a realization that must have cost him a lot. Too much, maybe.

 

It was a warning.

 

At the back of his mind, Patrick could already feel all new kinds of doubts settling in. It was obvious that Pete was speaking from experience, and the mere thought of what kind of experiences he had, and what effect they had on his life, made Patrick shudder. One look at Pete’s defeated face right now was enough to get a glimpse of the outcome.

But then Pete laughed his ugly laugh, and looked back at Patrick, a malicious grin spreading over his face. “Think back to when you first picked me up – bet you thought it would be an exception as well, right? And yet, here I am…”

 

“That’s not the same,” Patrick said through gritted teeth. “And you’re a person, not a drug.”

 

Patrick had tried to challenge Pete to admit his weaknesses, so how did he end up with all his failures exposed, too? It was simply not fair.

 

Pete sent him a weird look, though he didn’t bother to object. “I need the pills to keep me sane, and I need the money to _live_ , Patrick,” he finally said, clearly unwilling to dwell on the topic of addictions any longer. “I need a place to sleep, I need food, I have bills to pay. That’s all you need to know. Satisfied?”

 

_Absolutely not_. Patrick nodded anyway. He knew that it was no use to try to pry any further. There were still a million questions on his mind, and so many more things he wanted to address, but for now, he kept quiet, determined to wait for another occasion to try his luck. He couldn’t force Pete to open up his mouth for the truth like he could command him to open his mouth for his cock.

 

“Maybe _you_ can tell me why I am here, hm?” Pete eyed him with curiosity, though his question only left Patrick feeling confused.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Come on, Patrick, don’t act so clueless. Why am I here? If you wanted to hire a sex worker so bad, you could probably afford a real professional. Not just some hooker from the street.”

Pete paused, to eye him with a cold, calculating stare. “And it’s not like you _needed_ it. You’re young, you’re not any eyesore, you could get laid without money involved –  take it from someone who makes a living out of judging people’s taste, and who knows what guys like. There sure must be someone who likes you, Patrick.”

 

“Maybe there is someone,” Patrick mumbled, thinking back to Gabe. Gabe, whom he had forgotten about completely in the presence of Pete. This definitely wasn’t a good sign at all. Even if Gabe liked him, well, it dawned on Patrick that maybe he couldn’t force himself to reciprocate those feelings, no matter how hard he tried.

 

Pete raised his brows. “Yeah? Why am I here then, Patrick?”

 

“Because I want _you_ ,” Patrick whispered.

He didn’t _need_ Pete. No, but he _wanted_ him, and only him – not Gabe, not another hooker, not even the hooker Pete pretended to be. Just Pete, the person, Pete, Pete, _Pete, and no one else_.

 

Pete laughed, and batted his lashes. “Ah, now those are the words I want to hear from you, Patrick. You’re flattering me!”

He either must have mistaken Patrick’s words for a confession of lust, or maybe he just simply didn’t grasp the full meaning behind them. Maybe, he just collected the hearts of his client as an ego boost.

Or maybe, it had been a truth that Pete simply didn’t want to know about. Something he wasn’t willing to deal with, and would rather pretend didn’t exist.

 

“You want me?” Pete asked in a low voice, and stood up. He held out his hand towards Patrick. “Take me, then. I’m all yours tonight!”

A bright smile and expectant eyes, and Patrick couldn’t resist. There had been enough sadness, and it was clear that Pete was unwilling to open up any further for now. Patrick would ask more questions, try to get more answers, but for now, there was something else he wanted from Pete.

Patrick stood up as well, and grabbed the hand that was offered to him. He leaned against the table, and pulled Pete closer, laying his arms around him and pressing a desperate kiss to his neck. It earned him a small chuckle from Pete, and Patrick felt relieved. Pete was really here, with him, in his arms, safe from the dangers of the street. He could feel his heart starting to beat faster, and he allowed himself another kiss. Pete’s warm skin under his lips, and his warm eyes looking at him in amusement.

 

“We could fuck right here on the kitchen table, Patrick. It has the perfect height… Bend me over, or throw me on the table, whatever you want…”

 

“Gross, Pete. I told you, we’re not going to fuck on the table,” Patrick scoffed, though he was mostly irritated with himself for silently wondering if _maybe, we could_ –

 

No. Besides, there was no need to rush. Pete was all his for tonight, and Patrick wanted to take his time. He wanted him stretched out on his bed, naked and pretty, moaning while Patrick’s tongue explored every unclaimed inch of his skin.

 

Patrick guided him over to the bedroom. Pete let himself fall down on the mattress, limbs splayed out and taking up more space than needed. He gestured towards his lap, and sent Patrick a challenging grin. “Well, why don’t you sit down, Patrick,” he hummed, smugness dripping from his voice.

Patrick half-heartedly considered objecting, but the offer was just too tempting. He swung his legs over Pete’s hips, sitting down just above his groin. Patrick swallowed, and tried to push away the mental image of how this position would look like without clothes in between them, on _what else_ he could be sitting right now – no, _no_. That part of himself wasn’t something he was willing to share with the hooker, ever.

 

_Or at least, not yet_ , a cynical voice in his head chimed in, which Patrick tried to ignore.

 

Instead, he tried to focus on Pete’s pretty smile, his gorgeous face, and a body that despite its flaws was still beautiful to look at. Patrick realized he had absentmindedly begun to let his finger trail the well-known thorn tattoo when his fingers were stopped by the collar of Pete’s shirt, and heard Pete laugh. “Want me to get rid of this?” He asked, already pulling up the hem. Patrick nodded, and the shirt landed on the floor.

 

“Can’t get enough of admiring me?” Pete said with a wink.

 

“You’re just so pretty,” Patrick mumbled, as he continued to trace over inked skin.

 

“Am I?” Pete asked playfully, and batted his eyelashes. The small smile on his lips only emphasized the falseness behind this modesty.

 

“Come on. You don’t need me to say it again. You know you are,” Patrick retorted, but there was less scolding behind his words than he had intended.

 

“But I want to hear it from _you_ , Patrick!” Pete whined, and tried his best to hide his growing smile behind a pout.

 

That seemed like a weird request to Patrick. Usually, it was Pete who did most of the talking. And Pete rarely demanded anything from him in return; if he did, it was usually ultimately to his client’s benefit. Though Patrick couldn’t help but like the thought that his words had some effect on Pete. That his words _meant_ something, even if it was superficial and only a tiny part of what he really wanted to say to Pete.

Not yet willing to give in that easily, Patrick sighed. “You’re also vain, you know that?”

“You say that as if it was an insult,” Pete replied, still with the stupid pout on his lips. “Don’t be so mean to me, Patrick. You’re talking so much today, so why not say something nice, please?” He tugged at Patrick’s shirt, and smiled flirtatiously. “Tell me how pretty I am. Please, Patrick?”

 

“I already did,” Patrick answered, but he still leaned a little forward, and put his hand on Pete’s face. Pete probably got more than enough compliments from more than enough people, more than enough other Patricks, enough other fools and gullible clients, but right now, _I am saying these things, and my words alone make Pete smile_. “You’re pretty,” he repeated, as he ran a thumb over Pete’s lips. “You’re beautiful. There, I said it. Enough?”

 

“If I am so beautiful, and if you want me so much, why don’t you let me touch you? Why don’t you kiss me on the mouth?”

 

“What?” The questions threw Patrick off. He hadn’t expected that, and the weird shift in the mood threw him off even further. He sat up, and tried to come up with a proper reply.

 

“Because I don’t want to?” Patrick bit his lip. It came out more like a question, but that made the answer even more obvious.

 

“Oh Patrick, you are a terrible liar,” Pete laughed, and a hint of cruelty crept into his smile. He put his right hand on Patrick’s face, brushing his thumb over his lips. “You _want_ to kiss me on the mouth.” Patrick jerked away from the touch, but before he could gather himself enough to object, Pete withdrew his hand, and slid it under his shirt.

“You _want_ to be touched by me, right, Patrick?” Pete’s right hand rested on Patrick’s stomach, and his left hand wandered up further, causing goosebumps and a slight shudder. Patrick was speechless, with a million thoughts racing through his head all at once: Pete’s cunning words, his knowing grin, his hands on his body, feeling all its imperfections and the slight shudder and the goosebumps, shit, _shit_ –

 

“You want it, oh, you _want it_ , right? And that’s why you can’t allow yourself either of it.” Pete’s hands were now on Patrick’s hips, holding onto soft flesh, and his sharp words were tearing right into Patrick’s heart.

Patrick felt overwhelmed, and his mind was still racing, torn between wanting to scream at Pete to shut up and stop, or wanting to moan, wanting to give in, wanting to beg for more.

“You want this, Patrick, right?” Pete’s hands dug deeper into Patrick’s skin, with just a little too much force. His voice had lost its playfulness. It sounded demanding, with just a hint of desperation behind its sickly-sweet tone. “You _want_ this. You want me, _you want me_ –“

 

“Enough.” Panic won over Patrick, and a sudden flash of anger overtook him. Who did Pete think he was? Why could Pete play him so easily, drag out his darkest, deeply hidden cravings? How did Pete know that Patrick wanted to be touched, _please, Pete, and yes, I want to kiss you, oh, you’re right, you’re right_ … Ah, wouldn’t it be easier to just give in, succumb to the hooker’s provoking words and oh so gentle touches, have Pete touch him, have Pete kiss him, _let Pete do_ _everything to me_ –

 

“Enough!” Patrick repeated harshly, “shut up!” He wasn’t sure if the words were directed at the hooker, or to himself.

 

Pete’s eyes widened slightly, and he loosened his grip. But before he could withdraw his hands, Patrick grabbed Pete’s wrists, and slammed them down next to his face. With satisfaction, Patrick registered that he lost his stupid, smug expression.

 

For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence.

 

Insecurity crept up on Patrick. He expected Pete to laugh, ugly and mocking. Thought that Pete would continue to make fun of him, continue to ridicule him, and continue to dig out all of Patrick’s secrets. Patrick knew this had been the wrong reaction; he should have laughed and denied, and he shouldn’t have given in to Pete’s provocation. It was a moment of weakness saying much more than words could, and he was sure that Pete would use that to call him out on his lies.

What Patrick hadn’t expected was the look of sheer terror in Pete’s widened eyes.

 

 

“Don’t – no! Let go of me!” Pete snarled, and gone was the mocking undertone in his voice. Nothing but animosity and fear lay in his words.

 

That wasn’t the reaction Patrick had anticipated. Confused, he furrowed his brows. “What –“

 

“ _Let go of me!_ ” This time, Pete’s words came out as a shout, loud and shrill. Shock and surprise flooded Patrick, and rendered him speechless. He had never heard Pete raise his voice before, let alone shout at him.

 

The vicious anger replaced any former fear in Pete completely, and he was squirming underneath Patrick, trying to get his arms free. It was only then that he realized he still had Pete’s wrists in a tight grip, and finally grasped the meaning behind his words. He immediately let go, and sat up.

“Pete –“

Before he could even finish, Pete sat up as well, and before Patrick could react, he was pushed back. There wasn’t much force behind it, but Patrick was too surprised to keep his balance. He gracelessly fell off Pete and almost off the bed, too, with an undignified shriek escaping his lips.

Pete retreated to the other end of the bed, breathing heavily and still staring at Patrick. He brought his hand up to his left clavicle, where the bite mark and hickeys blemished his skin. Patrick sat up, but the movement caused Pete to wince. “ _Stay the hell away from me!_ ” He yelled, and held up his other arm in a defensive gesture.

 

When Patrick made no move to come closer, and didn’t give an answer, Pete seemed to calm down a little. He was still breathing a little too hard, but he finally lowered his arm.

 

“Pete, I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know – please. I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you.”

Unfinished sentences and clumsy words were all Patrick could come up with. He still didn’t dare to move, and barely registered what he was even saying. “Please. There’s no need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

 

“I know you won’t hurt me,” Pete hissed, but he averted his eyes. “You _can’t_ hurt me.” He wasn’t shouting anymore, but the quietness and the desperate tone of his voice sent a shudder through Patrick. It was almost worse than hearing him yell. “You can’t hurt me, _you can’t_.” Pete drew his knees to his chest, and buried his face in his arms. One of his hands was still on his neck and collarbone, clutching into the bruised skin.

 

Unsure of what to make of these words exactly, Patrick just nodded. “No one will hurt you here,” he said in what he hoped to be a reassuring tone, “please, Pete, believe me. I’m sorry. Please, calm down.”

 

He got no response. It all felt like a twisted nightmare version of his awful experience with William, and the same sense of overwhelming helplessness flooded Patrick again. He was powerless, and he felt like a fool for thinking he could keep the bad things away from Pete. It was already too late for that.

No, worse – _I am one of those bad things. Terrible, thoughtless, ignorant, just like all the other clients_. He felt disgusted with himself, and angry that he was helpless, useless, and worst of all, that his thoughtlessness had yet again hurt someone. The he had hurt _Pete_ , hurt Pete, _hurt Pete_ …

No, no. Patrick tried to push these thoughts away for now. First, he had to reassure Pete that he meant no harm. “Pete, I’m sorry. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have done that.” Patrick came a little closer, slowly and carefully. “Pete, please say something,” he said softly, almost in a whisper. He tried his best to sound calm, despite his bubbling fear and the need to tear Pete’s arm away, force him to stop, pull him in a hug, whisper a million apologies and incoherent thoughts into his ear. Nothing of this seemed appropriate though, and he didn’t want to scare Pete any more than he already had.

 

“’s okay,” Pete mumbled quietly. He kept his head down, but his breathing was back to normal, and his body had relaxed a little.

 

“Can I do anything? Can I – can I help you somehow?” Patrick heard the desperation in his own voice, awfully close to sobbing. He bit his lip again, and tried to keep his composure. Much to his relief, Pete finally lifted his head. As far as Patrick could judge, he hadn’t cried, but he still looked distressed.

 

“You don’t need to _help_ me,” Pete scoffed, and Patrick wasn’t sure whether to be glad that he had regained some of his countenance, or be disappointed by the harsh tone and even harsher rejection.

Of course, Patrick couldn’t help _. Who do I think I am? Just some meaningless John. Pete doesn’t need me._

Being so helpless, _so fucking useless_ hurt. It was infuriating. The defeated silence felt worse than having Pete scream at him.

 

“You know what would help?” Pete said finally, “fuck, uh, I –well, I could really use a smoke right now.” He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair. “I know you’re not a smoker, but _I_ am. Well…?”

 

Patrick nodded mechanically. “Yeah, sure. If you want to. Just not inside, please.” He paused, then stood up, and went over to the hallway. A moment later, he managed to find his spare keys; his eyes fell upon his coatrack, and he remembered that Pete’s shirt was not appropriate for the outside temperature. If he was asking Pete to go smoke outside, he had to make sure he was comfortable at least. Patrick grabbed a hoodie, and went back.

 

Pete was already in the living room, fully dressed again, backpack slung over his shoulder, and for a moment, Patrick feared that Pete would change his mind, and decide to leave for good. But he said no such thing, so Patrick just held out the keys and the jacket.

 

“Here. You can go smoke outside.” He paused when he was rewarded with a questioning look from Pete. “It’s cold,” Patrick continued, “take it, please.”

Pete furrowed his brows, and it looked like he wanted to object. But the hint of anger disappeared from his face after a few seconds, and he just took the items Patrick handed him, not making eye contact. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Patrick nodded, then Pete was out, shut the door behind him, leaving behind nothing but a distressed client.

 

Not knowing what to do, Patrick simply sat back down on the couch. It slowly dawned on him that he had just handed a _street hooker, someone who is still a stranger_ , _the spare keys to my apartment, my home, just like that, without a second thought. Great_.

 

Apparently, sensible behavior was not on today’s agenda.

 

Who knew, maybe Pete was laughing his ugly laugh now, and would leave anyway. There was no way Patrick could hold him back.

 

He let out a sigh that was dangerously close to a whimper, and buried his head in his hands. The images of Pete’s face, torn in panic and fear, soon replaced every other worry.

_Who could blame Pete if he decided to leave, after the way I treated him? Careless, without thinking, like a complete jerk_.

So much for not hurting Pete. So much for keeping him safe. So much for being better than the other Johns. Patrick was nothing but a failure, over and over again.

 

He hadn’t known that grabbing his wrists would cause such a reaction in Pete. But that didn’t make it any better. Even considering he had been unaware, without malicious intentions to seriously hurt Pete, that was no excuse for his thoughtless behavior. Even if Pete hadn’t freaked out so obviously, Patrick couldn’t imagine that he enjoyed being held down like that. He thought back to the other hooker, and William’s terrified reaction upon grabbing his wrists.

 

Patrick could imagine a thousand reasons for the hookers’ fears.

 

Another cruel series of images danced before Patrick’s inner eye, taunting him – someone else holding Pete down, to hurt him, to abuse him, because wasn’t he _just a whore? A plaything to be used for my desires? He hasn’t said no, so that must mean yes._

The thought of Pete underneath someone else, another John, an alternative version of Patrick, squirming and trying to break free; or forcing himself to smile despite his fear and disgust, forcing himself to pretend and play along, was sickening. Patrick thought back to the injuries he had seen on Pete; someone hurt him, _someone dared to hurt him_ –

 

“I’m back.” Pete’s voice coming from the hallway interrupted Patrick’s train of thoughts. He had been so caught up in his head that he hadn’t even registered Pete coming through the door again. Relief flooded Patrick: Pete had come back, Pete was here, with him; that meant there was still hope, still the chance for forgiveness.

 

Pete took off the hoodie, and looked over to Patrick. “I’ll put it back. Well, and thanks, I guess,” he said, while holding it up.

 

“Don’t mention it.” Patrick looked away, feeling pathetic. He wished he had more to offer.

 

At least, Pete had sounded calmer. It dawned on Patrick that maybe, he hadn’t just needed a cigarette, but also a little space. Some privacy, and a moment to clear his thoughts, away from his client. Patrick furrowed his brows, and clutched his hands into fists. _Hopefully, cigarettes were the only drugs he just took._

 

He looked up to see Pete standing front of him now, eyeing him with a slightly irritated look. “Hey, Patrick. What’s up with that face? Are you okay?”

Patrick let out a strangled scoff; after all that had just happened, Pete had to ask _him_ if he was okay? _As if I haven’t been humiliatingly weak and pathetic enough already_.

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick answered, not bothering to cover up the bitterness in his voice. “I’m _fine_ , as you’d phrase it. _Just fine_.”

Pete raised his brows, but didn’t comment on the obvious mocking of his own former lies. Instead, he sat down on the couch as well, in a calculated and cautious distance. He fiddled with his hands in his lap, and didn’t look at Patrick. It was weirdly self-conscious behavior that he had never seen on Pete before. Another glimpse behind the usual mask of smug smiles and confident lies, one that again proved to be much harder to deal with than former illusions.

 

For a few moments, there was just tense silence filling the empty space between them. Then, Pete let out a heavy breath, and spoke up. “I’m sorry.”

 

“ _Sorry_?” Patrick repeated incredulous. “What for?”

 

“I overstepped your boundaries. You don’t want to be touched, so, okay, fine. It’s none of my fucking business why. You’re the paying customer, and we’re here to do whatever _you_ want.”

 

Pete’s apology only made Patrick feel worse. He shook his head, and looked over to Pete, who had finally turned his head towards him, and had stopped fidgeting with his hands. “I’m the one who has to apologize,” Patrick said, his voice sounding weaker than intended.  “I didn’t want to freak you out,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t thinking. I – I didn’t know…” He bit his lip, and went silent.

To his surprise, Pete looked at him with anger. “Damn, Patrick, please. Get yourself together. You’re really starting to annoy me,” he scoffed, nothing but scorn and derision in his attitude. “You don’t need to freak out like this every time something doesn’t go as planned. You don’t need to treat me like some fragile little kid. I can handle myself just fine. And you don’t need to apologize. You – you’re just some John. You can’t hurt me. _None of you_ can hurt me, not you, not that bastard, not –“ Pete interrupted himself, cursing under his breath. “Whatever. Forget what I said. Forget everything I said, okay? Fuck, just forget it.”

 

Again, silence settled between them. Patrick knew that Pete was right, that forgetting would have been much easier. Denial was much more convenient. But Patrick also knew that he couldn’t do that anymore, he just couldn’t. The reality was ugly and grim, certainly more unpleasant than the easy to digest lies and illusions. Still, that was what he was craving – truth, no matter how uncomfortable, and a part of the real Pete, even if that person would be harder to deal with than the hooker paid to always please him. He wanted Pete _, all of Pete_ , even the unpleasant parts.

If Pete shoved him back, Patrick would retreat. He had no right to pry any further. If Pete didn’t want to talk, well, he would have to accept that. But he _had_ to try, and with all his remaining courage, he spoke up.

 

“ _That bastard_ , as you said… Was he the one who did this?” Patrick almost wanted to reach out for Pete, but instead, he pointed as his own clavicle to indicate what he meant.

 

Pete furrowed his brows. “What makes you think that, huh?”

 

“You keep touching that spot.”

 

Pete crossed his arms, as if that would somehow undo the previous traitorous gestures. He let out a disgruntled noise, and averted Patrick’s eyes. Eventually, he nodded. “Guess I’m not that subtle today,” he huffed, clearly annoyed with himself.

 

“What happened, Pete?” Patrick asked cautiously, and forced himself to look over to him. He wouldn’t be a coward this time.

 

“How the fuck is that any of your business?” Pete asked angrily, before adding: “Why the hell do you even care, huh? You never cared before, but now that it’s affecting _your_ pleasure, you suddenly feel the need to pry? Spare me the false concern.”

“I just never dared to ask before,” Patrick admitted. It was true – he never dared to ask, and he had never dared to think about the answer. What the hooker did outside of Patrick’s bedroom should have been no concern to him. It wasn’t supposed to matter just like the rest of _Pete_ wasn’t supposed to matter.

Except he did, and Patrick couldn’t deny it anymore. And he couldn’t hold back more words pouring out of whatever corner of his mind he had shoved them.“But I’m asking now. Because,” Patrick started, clenching his hands into fists and trying to ignore his heart pounding in his chest. “Because I want to know. This isn’t about me, or my _pleasure_. I’m asking because I care about you.” He eyed Pete’s injury again, remembering how he saw something similar on him before, at their last encounter. “That client… You’ve seen him before, right? The teeth… You had a similar injury last time we met.”

 

There was a moment of silence, and Patrick braced himself for the worst. He was definitely overstepping so many lines here that he wouldn’t be surprised for Pete to yell at him, laugh at him, or worse, stay silent forever.

 

Pete did none of these things. Instead, he uncrossed his arms, only to fiddle with his hands in his lap again. He looked uncomfortable, but not with the usual anger or scorn behind it. “Yeah, that’s true.” He paused. “I didn’t expect you to remember that.”

 

“I do,” Patrick replied, holding back that ever since he started to notice the bruises left on Pete’s skin, they plagued his already guilt-ridden conscience on a daily basis.

 

Pete looked back at his hands in his lap. “Look, it’s not that dramatic. It was just an unfortunate run-in with a bad client. Shit happens.” He shrugged his shoulders, but Patrick didn’t believe the nonchalance in his attitude.

 

“Twice?”

 

“I obviously didn’t expect it to happen a second time.”

 

Patrick kept silent, waiting for Pete to continue.

 

“After our first time, I stole some money from the guy, and, well, contrary to what I thought, he noticed. That’s why he decided to take a little… Extra.”

 

“You stole money from him?” Patrick raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said that you weren’t a thief.” Pete looked at him in annoyance. “I’m not a thief. I just took what rightfully belonged to me. Consider it damage repairs. I told that fucker how to behave, and if he doesn’t listen, he can at least pay up. He owed it to me, don’t you agree?”

In Patrick’s opinion, that guy owed Pete more than money, and he had a certain feeling that money alone couldn’t cover for the damages done. Superficially, maybe, but there were things money couldn’t buy; dignity, respect, forgiveness. _Things that maybe, deep down,_ **_I_ ** _tried to buy_ , Patrick realized as he recalled each time he had pressed more cash into Pete’s hand after they were done. To show power, but also, to rid himself of his guilty conscience.

 

“Second time he came around, he showed no signs of anger or anything. Everything went fine, it was just a standard fuck. But then, afterwards, he – well, he held me down. When… When I tried to fight him off, he told me that if I didn’t let him, he would just go find someone else.” Pete paused, and looked away. When he spoke up again, bitterness had crept into his voice. “No, not just someone else. He told me he would hurt Brendon.”

 

Patrick furrowed his brows. “That’s the boy who’s always standing next to you, right?” Pete nodded, and Patrick continued: “Is he your friend?”

 

“ _Friend_?” Pete laughed, loud and ugly, self-deprecating instead of humorous. “Friends don’t get other friends in dangerous situations because of their own selfish stupidity. But fuck, I couldn’t allow him to hurt the poor kid. He had nothing to do with this. So…” He trailed off, unwilling to point out the obvious.

 

“So, you let him hurt you instead,” Patrick finished the sentence as he eyed Pete with caution.

 

“Don’t you understand? I told you,” Pete said harshly, “he couldn’t hurt me. I bet he thought he could, but I’m stronger than him. He doesn’t hold enough power over me to hurt me.” He paused, and sent Patrick a strange look he couldn’t quite place. “ _None_ of my clients do.”

 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Patrick mumbled. “I never did.”

 

“Maybe I deserve it.” Pete shrugged, a tired smile on his face. “I have a talent for bringing out the worst in people. And really, it was a dumb thing to do. I’m a stupid slut who got what he deserved.”

 

“It’s not your fault, Pete.” Patrick clenched his hands into fists again, knuckles turning white and blunt nails digging into his palms. “None of this is your fault, okay? What that guy did to you is fucking wrong, and you’re not to blame for any of that, okay? Even if you stole from him, that’s – that’s absolutely no excuse!”

 

Pete just shook his head. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for that heartwarming speech.”

 

Patrick felt more anger bubbling inside of him, the same rage he had felt ever since he had first seen the injury earlier that evening. There were more words, too, more things he wanted to say to Pete, to assure him that none of this was his fault in any way. But Pete wasn’t looking at him, and it was obvious Pete wasn’t going to accept any further objections, either. Worst, he may not even believe them. Patrick bit his lip, but he swore to himself he would make Pete believe him one day.

Another question crept into his mind. “Pete, have you ever stolen from me?”

 

“No.” Pete shrugged, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I only steal from clients who owe me something. But you never gave me any reason to, right?”

Patrick didn’t answer that. Whatever he owed to Pete couldn’t be repaid with money anyway.

 

“Hey. What about _my_ questions, hm?” Pete looked at him, and his voice had regained some of the confidence that usually swung in it. “You gracefully avoided answering any of them. Say, why don’t you let me touch you? What about kissing, hm?”

 

“It’s just not something I ever want to buy from you.” Patrick paused, struggling to find the right words. “If I kiss someone, I want it to be real. I want the other person to want it too.”

 

“So, you’re not going to kiss me unless I want it, too? How noble, Patrick. What a gentleman you are!” Pete scoffed. “What if I didn’t want to kiss you?”

 

Patrick furrowed his brows, and looked away. “I would rather go without kissing you forever than forcing you to kiss me.”

 

Pete laughed his ugly laugh, and shook his head. He seemed amused, and Patrick couldn’t decide whether that was a good or a bad thing. “You’re a fool, you know that? And here I thought you knew who I was, and how we play this game.” He raised his hand, and carefully placed it on Patrick’s arm, as if to test what kind of reaction he got. Patrick bit his lip, and stayed silent.

“ _Forcing_ me, hm? I’m a hooker, sweetheart. You’re _paying_ me to do those things, exchanging money for a simple service, and that’s it. Besides, I think I can decide for myself where my boundaries are, and what rules to set.” Pete paused, but when he continued, the amused undertone in his voice had vanished, and his fingers dug deeper into Patrick’s arm. “For the record, though, I don’t like being treated like I’m reprehensible, or a menace, or as if me touching you would get you dirty. As if I could stain you somehow.” Pete let out a scoff, and withdrew his hand. “You sure like to touch _me_ , though. According to your logic, doesn’t that make you dirty anyway, hm?” There was an uncomfortable harshness behind these words, and Patrick could feel shame and embarrassment rising in him.

 

“You’re not dirty. _I’m_ the one who’s dirty,” Patrick whispered bitterly, and looked at his hands. Nothing visible was soiling them, but the memories of what they had done were still clinging to them.

 

Surprisingly, Pete let out a quiet chuckle, borne out of sadness rather than genuine amusement. “If only it were that easy, hm? I’m afraid we’re both no angels.”

 

“Also, I didn’t lie to you when I said I don’t like grabby dudes,” Patrick mumbled, feeling even more embarrassed. Here he was, confessing his weird insecurities to Pete of all people, as if he didn’t know enough about Patrick already.

Patrick tried to remember – hadn’t it once felt so nice to see someone comply without question? Hadn’t it felt powerful to just have Pete obey? He couldn’t conjure any of the satisfaction he once felt.

“It was stupid,” Patrick said with a sigh. He forced himself to look away from his hands, and crossed his arms over his chest. “But you don’t have to touch me, really. If you don’t want to -”

 

But Pete interrupted him, the irritation and impatience in his voice a clear sign that he was growing tired of this discussion. “You wanna know what _I_ want, Patrick?”

 

Pete stared at him in annoyance for a moment, before playfulness overtook his attitude again, and the harshness in his words was replaced with the syrupy-sweet tone he always used when trying to be persuasive. “I want you to relax. I’m here to make you feel good! I want you to stop worrying so much…”

 

A matching smile lit up Pete’s face, and he stretched out his arms. He hesitated though, seemingly unsure of whether his client would approve of it this time, causing Patrick to sigh again. Another wave of shame rolled over him. He hated how much fear he kept causing in other people. He thought back to William’s scared face, thought back to Pete’s narrowed, angry eyes, and the caution that they showed now. Even simple gestures were tainted with doubts, just because Patrick had insisted on feeling powerful, of having control over someone else. None of that felt worth the fear in Pete’s behavior anymore. It just felt childish and wrong.

“C’mere,” Patrick mumbled, reaching for Pete’s hands. He pulled him closer, and apparently encouraged by that, Pete straddled his lap. When no objection came, he slowly lay his arms around Patrick, seemingly waiting for the usual reaction – being brushed off as his client tensed up from unwanted (or much too wanted) body contact.

Instead, Patrick mirrored Pete’s gesture. It felt good, too good, to have him so close. _Safe_ , in his own arms, away from other people’s malicious touches. “You smell like cigarettes,” Patrick mumbled, yet despite his weak complaint, he still couldn’t help but bury his head in Pete’s neck. Cigarettes or not, there was still a hint of Pete’s own scent, warm and familiar like the feeling of his skin against Patrick’s.

 

It earned him a grin from Pete, who brought his mouth closer to his ear. “Ah, let’s forget about the sad things, hm? We’re here to have a good time, right? Tell me I’m pretty again. Show me that you want me, and _me_ alone. Give me better memories to replace the unpleasant ones…”

There was the same hint of desperation behind these words as earlier. Why there was all this insecurity in his behavior today, and what exactly Pete wanted from him, Patrick didn’t dare to ask. Deep down, he suspected that Pete probably didn’t even know the reasons himself; and if he did, he surely would not share them.

“Patrick, come on,” Pete hummed, interrupting his thoughts. “Let’s just be happy for a while…”

Honeysweet words in Patrick’s ears and honey-colored eyes looking at him expectantly. It was pure temptation, and Patrick just gave in. How could he refuse the closest thing to happiness he would ever get with the hooker?

 

“Yeah,” he said breathlessly, and pressed a kiss to Pete’s neck. “Yeah, that sounds good to me.”

 

“Want to do it like last time, here on the couch?”

 

Patrick shook his head. No, he didn’t want something rushed and desperate. Tonight, Pete was all his, and there was no need to hurry. “Let’s go over to the bedroom,” he whispered, and motioned Pete to get off his lap.

 

He led Pete over to the bedroom, and let go of him, only to place his hands on Pete’s body now. He let them wander under his shirt, over warm skin he soon felt under his lips, too. He could feel Pete letting out a small chuckle, and tapping his index finger against his chest. “Mmm, we’re wearing too many clothes, don’t you think?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick answered greedily as he took a step back. He hesitated, then decided to undress himself as well. Pete had seen him naked today already anyway (as countless times before), and the enticing thought of Pete’s naked skin pressed against his own was always stronger than any insecurities.

 

Pete let himself fall on the bed, limbs sprawled out, and sent Patrick a cocky gaze. There he was, all naked and pretty, just waiting for him, like Patrick had wanted. For a moment, he just wanted to throw overboard every rational thought, and take Pete, take everything he wanted from him without care or concern, greedily _and rightfully, because isn’t he a whore? Isn’t he paid to let me do exactly that – to give me what I want, I and_ **_I_ ** _alone_?

But that desire quickly passed, and Patrick bit his lip. He kneeled on the bed next to Pete, but refrained from touching him.

“Pete, listen.” Patrick paused and looked at him, to ensure he had Pete’s full attention. He got a nod, and continued: “I want you to tell me when there’s something – well, something that you don’t want.”

 

The request was rewarded with a confused look from Pete. “You know my rules. They haven’t changed within the last five minutes.”

 

Patrick shook his head; he already felt stupid, and dangerously close to a territory he wasn’t meant to set foot in, but he continued anyway. “Not your _hooker_ rules. I mean – I mean, like when I fucked your mouth, or when I held your wrists down. Just… just tell me to stop if you don’t like something.”

 

Pete looked away, apparently contemplating the thought, then sighed. “Will it finally make you shut up and feel better if I agree?”

Patrick nodded, and Pete rolled his eyes and sighed again. “Fine. Whatever. Your money, your choices.”

 

“It’s your choice, too,” Patrick mumbled.

 

“Oh, yeah?” Pete laughed, loud and obnoxiously, then sat up to reach for Patrick’s arm. “Well, then I say you should stop talking, and go back to touching me. I liked that a lot better…”

 

Patrick let himself get pulled closer, then guided to kneel between Pete’s legs by a pair of impatient hands. “Good,” Pete grinned once he was satisfied with Patrick’s position. “So obedient again. What a good boy you are for me today!”

Mumbling a weak protest, Patrick turned his head away. But Pete leaned closer, laying one hand on Patrick’s hips. “Come on, Patrick,” he whispered as he let his other hand wander in between own his legs, reaching for his dick. “Look at me.”

Slight annoyance passed through Patrick; this damn hooker knew exactly how to play him, say what he wanted to hear, do what he wanted to see, and he won Patrick over way too easily each time. But, like each time before, the sight of Pete in front of him, staring at him with those longing eyes and a small smirk, arousal starting to color his cheeks red and hardening his cock – it was enough to make Patrick forget about everything else. Temporarily, at least.

 

It made him want to chase the feeling of happiness the hooker had promised, the feeling Patrick longed for so badly. Power or dominance, winning stupid mind games or greedily, carelessly just taking things from Pete, no, all of that didn’t matter; and Patrick would have done almost anything just to give Pete a little bit of happiness too – one that didn’t come in the form of drugs or denial.

 

“Ah, how I wish this was your hand, Patrick!” Pete said with a pout as he continued to give his cock another teasing stroke. “Your rejection hurts so bad. Please, don’t be so cruel to me!”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Patrick mumbled, though he couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. He put his hand on Pete’s chest. “Lay down, okay?”

 

Pete withdrew his hands, and did as told. He was already half-hard, slightly panting, with the first hint of a blush blooming on his face. “Come on, get me ready for your dick, Patrick. I want you to fuck me, please. Take us out of our heads for a little…”

 

“Sure,” Patrick said breathlessly, already reaching for the lube that was still sitting on the nightstand. He grabbed one of the condoms as well, tossing both items on the mattress. Pete raised his eyebrows, but Patrick just shook his head.

 

“I want to kiss you first,” he said, already towering over Pete, lips close to his face. “Want to touch you. I want… I want you, Pete.”

 

“Well, I’m here to be yours, Patrick!” Pete whispered in a low voice. “All yours, so go on. Kiss me, touch me, admire me…”

 

Patrick was eager to fulfill that request. First, something he was already familiar with: a kiss on Pete’s temples, his cheekbones, his jaw. On the warm skin on his neck, down to – _right_. He paused, then decided to carefully run his finger over the bruised skin on Pete’s collar bone, causing Pete to wince slightly.

“Don’t – not there, please,” he murmured, turning his head away. It was an unusually self-conscious move from him. Patrick briefly recalled a similar reaction from one of their other encounters, when he had run his finger over a bruise on Pete’s hip as if it were a stain.

Something that could easily be wiped away; just a pesky little inconvenience. Something _dirty_.

 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick mumbled, silently apologizing for the other time as well, and silently begging for forgiveness.  

 

“Don’t be.” Pete let out a small breath, then looked back at him with regained confidence. “Come on, don’t just stop. You haven’t even started yet!” He paused, then gently lay his hand on Patrick’s back. “Please?”

 

The request was accompanied by the usual smirk, knowing that Patrick didn’t actually need these words. He’d give away every touch, kiss, and every piece of his heart even without Pete’s begging. That was just for show, and they both knew it; but Patrick felt almost glad that they kept up the pretense. It was hard enough to deal with everything else that had changed between them, all the other subtle shifts that had thrown them both off.

Patrick let his tongue wander over Pete’s right nipple, caressing the other one with his fingers. As predicted, it caused a satisfied moan from Pete, and a strange sense of pride swelling up in Patrick’s chest.

He briefly considered something harder, rougher, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin and giving a small bite, but considering Pete’s recent experiences with a client’s set of teeth, he refrained.  

Instead, he trailed down further, over Pete’s chest, his stomach, his hips, a landscape of tan skin just waiting to be attended by his mouth. Though Patrick had to suppress a small shudder when the feeling under his lips confirmed his earlier thoughts: the bones beneath the skin were just a little too prominent. Had it always been this way, and he simply hadn’t noticed?

 

“More, please,” Pete whispered. “Touch my dick, Patrick! Or do you want me to do it myself?”

 

“Whatever you want,” Patrick just said, which earned him an annoyed scoff. “You’re really pissing me off today,” Pete growled, but there wasn’t much bite behind his remark. “Guess I’ll have to do it myself if I want to get anything done here.”

 

Patrick briefly considered protesting, but Pete already had his cock in his own hands. Therefore, he decided to get his attention back to the rest of Pete’s body. He put his hands on Pete’s thighs, gently motioning him to part them a little wider. With regrets, he recalled Pete’s earlier words, and that rimming was against his rules. It would have been delightful to flip him over on all fours, lick a stripe down his tailbone, his cleft, over to his hole, have Pete squirm and whimper as he licked him open, pushed his fingers and tongue inside of him, and –

 

_Fuck, no. No. Not happening_ , Patrick reminded himself. _That’s nothing he will ever want from me_ , he thought grimly, before he shook his head. He could still give Pete everything else. Patrick reached for the lube to slick up his fingers.

 

“Finally,” Pete growled, giving his now fully erect cock another stroke. “Come on, Patrick, please!”

 

Patrick circled his fingers over the rim, then slowly pushed the first digit inside. Pete hummed in approval, and continued to stroke himself. Patrick slowly added a second, then a third, causing a gasp from Pete. “Fuck – fuck, like that!” he hissed, and pushed back against the them. “Mmm, so good, Patrick!”

 

Patrick was entranced with the sight. Last time on the couch, their positioning had been slightly awkward and impractical. Today though, with Pete touching himself to his own liking, fucking himself on Patrick’s fingers, all he had to do was watch. He grabbed his own dick with his other hand, which was soon fully hard. Watching Pete, hearing Pete, _feeling_ his arousal whenever he tightened around his fingers, rocking back harder as he let out a moan, was just too goddamn hot.

 

“Come on, Patrick,” Pete groaned after a while, and stopped moving to send him a dirty grin. “I’m so fucking ready for you. Fuck me, please.”

 

That was a request Patrick wasn’t going to turn down. He withdrew his fingers and Pete sat up, reaching for the condoms. “You know, I could do this myself,” Patrick started and pointed at the condom, but Pete already shook his head. “No, thanks,” he cooed, but the sudden false sweetness in his voice felt off. “I’m the one who handles the condoms.”

 

Irritated, Patrick’s first instinct was to protest. But the slight tension in Pete’s shoulders, and the way he firmly clutched his hand around the plastic wrapping as if he was afraid Patrick might snatch it out of his hands made him hold back. _Weird,_ Patrick couldn’t help but think. Yet another thing he had never noticed before.

But hadn’t he just offered Pete that he wouldn’t do anything to make him uncomfortable?

 

“Go ahead, then,” Patrick said, and Pete rolled the rubber over him. Once he was done, the tension in Pete’s posture vanished in an instant, replaced by the usual smile, and a lascivious look in his eyes. He gave Patrick’s cock another stroke, causing him to groan and gesture towards the lube. More of it was spread over his dick in swift but sensual movements, and Patrick bit back another groan.

 

“How do you want me?” Pete asked him, dark eyes looking at him expectantly.

 

Patrick thought back to earlier: Pete on his stomach, vulnerable and pretty, more unclaimed inked skin on his back. “Turn around,” he answered. He expected Pete to get on all fours, but instead, Pete sat up on his knees and braced his arms against the headboard. “That okay?” He asked while looking over his shoulder. Patrick just nodded as he put one hand on Pete’s hip, other hand grabbing his lubed-up cock. If that was the position Pete was comfortable with, Patrick wasn’t going to object.

 

“Go on,” Pete said with a wink, “get your dick inside of me. Now, please.”

 

Patrick entered him slowly, relishing in the well-known feeling of Pete’s body, hot and tight around his cock, warm and familiar in his arm, soft skin under his hands. Once he was all the way in, he leaned his head against Pete’s neck.

 

“You good?” He asked, not daring to move while he waited for Pete’s approval to continue.

 

“Better than I’ve ever felt before,” Pete hummed. “Ah, your cock always fills me up so perfectly, Patrick...” As if to underline his words, he arched his back and squeezed tight around him, letting out a small whimper. “Fuck, so good…!”

Patrick let out a muffled groan against Pete’s skin. “Mmm, you like when I do that?” Pete asked, pushing back against his cock again. Instead of an answer, another groan escaped Patrick’s mouth; fuck, yes, he liked this. A lot. He heard a throaty laugh, before Pete twisted his head to look over his shoulder. “Want me fuck myself on your cock?” he whispered, a suggestion that sent a shiver down Patrick’s spine. “Yeah,” he answered, biting back the dozen forms of _please_ on his tongue. “Yeah, go ahead.”

 

Pete began to move, rocking back against Patrick’s dick slowly. Patrick tightened his grip around his hips, but didn’t force him to move. Just like last time, having Pete set a pace, seeing him fucking himself shamelessly on his cock was too fucking good.

And this time, Patrick could see how his dick slid in and out of him, could see Pete’s lubed-up entrance stretched tight around him, could watch each time Pete pushed back against him with increasing speed, small moans accompanying each movement.

“Patrick, please, I – ah, I wanna come…!” Another moan, before Pete spoke up again: “ _Please_ ,” he repeated, “haven’t I been such a _good_ boy?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick gasped, past the point of overthinking his words. “Yeah, so good for me, Pete. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Everything, Pete, everything you want -”

 

“Just _shut up_ already and touch me,” Pete interrupted him, impatiently grabbing Patrick’s hand to guide it to his cock. Patrick gave it a few strokes, and was rewarded with a satisfied grunt.

 

“Yes, good, Patrick,” Pete whispered, another moan escaping his mouth. “Fuck, I want more, please – I need to come, please…”

 

Those were familiar words, but they didn’t sound like all the other times before. Patrick had heard them enough to catch the subtle shift in tone. And while Pete had always accepted his touches, always pretended to desperately beg for it, he had never outright demanded it like this.

Patrick wasn’t sure if he imagined things, if reality and illusion warped together into all kinds of new, dangerous lies, if Pete was selling him just another act of a well-rehearsed play.

 

It didn’t matter anyway. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered but Pete, Pete, _Pete._

 

“More, Patrick,” Patrick heard him gasp, and hearing his name coming from these pretty lips never failed to make his heart beat even faster. “C’mon, please, please…”

 

Patrick jerked him off with fast, precise movements, as Pete kept pushing back against his cock, harder and more desperate each time. It didn’t take long until Patrick felt him tighten around his dick, heard the familiar whimpering as Pete came.

Pete slowed down, breathing hard, too caught up in his own orgasm, but Patrick wasn’t done yet. Pete let out an occasional whimper, and he kept clenching down around him, each time sending another jolt of pleasure through Patrick. Finally, one last deep thrust, one last moan from Pete, and Patrick came, too.

 

For a few moments, Patrick just stayed like that, arms slung around Pete, cock still buried deep inside of him, relishing in the afterglow. Eventually, he pulled out slowly, and sat back on his heels. He kept his arms around Pete, motioning him to sit back as well. It just felt too good to embrace him, feel Pete’s rapidly rising and falling chest under his arms, his skin under his fingers, to know Pete was here, really here, and that he wouldn’t have to let him go today. That Pete was his for tonight, _mine and mine alone_ , Patrick thought with triumph and relief – _no one can ruin that today._

 

“Enough, Patrick,” he heard Pete say softly after a few moments, “let’s clean ourselves up, hm?”

 

Patrick shook his head. “There’s no need to hurry. Let’s just stay like this for a little longer.”

 

There was no reply from Pete, but Patrick could feel him tense up in his arms.

Patrick didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. With slight regret, he let go of Pete, who turned around with an unreadable expression on his face. He stayed silent, just got the condom off Patrick’s cock before he climbed out of bed. Patrick watched him leave the bedroom, as all kinds of unsettling feelings settled in his guts. He reminded himself that Pete was here as a _hooker, to sell sex, not sappy cuddling or heartwarming hugs. I paid him for fucking, not intimate affection_.

 

With a sigh, Patrick stood up, and gathered his shirt and underwear. He felt sweaty and dirty, but way too tired for a shower right now. Laying down in bed again seemed like a much better idea.

 

Shortly afterwards, Pete came back, looking calmer now. He grabbed his clothes, before sending Patrick a questioning look. Patrick just nodded, and while Pete tossed aside his uncomfortable looking pants, he slid back into his shirt and underwear. He sent Patrick another questioning look, and Patrick made a vague gesture towards the bed.

Pete lay down, just far away enough to be out of reach of Patrick’s hands.

Everything in Patrick wanted to close the distance between them. He yearned to have Pete back in his arms, wanted to feel his warmth against his own body, or maybe even just run his hand through his hair again. But the cautious distance between them was surely no coincidence. If Pete had wanted any of that, he would have made that clear.

 

There were a few moments of awkward silence and tension. Patrick started to feel annoyance rising in him, together with disappointment. Why couldn’t Pete trust him a little? He cleared his throat. “I told you. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. There’s no need to worry, okay?”

Pete stayed silent. But after a moment, much to Patrick’s relief, he actually came closer. The cautious look on his face replaced by a small smile.

 

“Well, sweet Patrick, what are we doing next?”

 

“Next?” Patrick repeated. He still felt sated, with the last bit of his afterglow buzzing through his body, and underneath that, he felt dead tired. With each passing moment, the urge to simply give in and fall asleep became stronger. He hadn’t exactly planned to stay up all night.

 

“Honestly, just going to sleep is what I want to do now,” Patrick admitted, which earned him an obnoxious laugh.

 

“Seriously?” Pete inquired incredulously. “Just… Sleep? Come on, you hired me for the whole night. We haven’t even done more than the usual. Don’t want a second round of fucking? Hot, steamy sex in the shower? A blowjob to let you fall asleep? Anything?”

 

Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. “No, thanks. I, uh, I think I’d fall asleep before I could get it up again, to be honest.” He paused, and let out a grunt. “And, well, I have work tomorrow.” He opened his eyes again, only to be met with a look of disbelief from Pete. “I told you,” Patrick said, trying his best to suppress a yawn, “I, well, I didn’t really plan this out.”

 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Pete replied, and rolled his eyes. “But whatever. It’s your money you’re wasting.”

 

Patrick couldn’t help but silently disagree with that. If his money bought Pete a safe place to stay, kept him away from the danger of the streets and other client’s uncaring hands, it sure wasn’t wasted. Another thought from earlier crept up in Patrick’s mind, and he cleared his throat. “Hey, uhm –“

 

“Look, I’m really not fond of pillow talk. You have one last question,” Pete said sternly, and it was clear he would stand by his decision. Patrick nodded, and Pete shrugged. “Go ahead.”

 

“Is ‘Pete’ your real name?”

 

Pete widened his eyes in surprise, and stayed silent for a moment. “Yes,” he answered after a while, and gave Patrick a questioning look. “Yes, it’s my real name. Why are you asking?”

 

_For many reasons_ , Patrick thought, though he didn’t want to give most of them away. “I didn’t expect you to tell your clients your real name. That seems…” Patrick trailed off, not exactly knowing how to finish the sentence.

 

“Stupid?” Pete let out a small chuckle, tainted by a hint of sadness. “Well, if I made smart decisions in my life, I wouldn’t be here.”

 

“Right,” Patrick mumbled, as the familiar feeling of guilt settled in his chest again. Pete was a hooker, _and he is here because I paid him, not because he wants to_.

 

Pete shrugged again. “Hey, we’re both not the best at making decisions, hm? If _you_ made smart decisions, I wouldn’t be here either.”

 

There was a certain truth in Pete’s words. But it was too late for regrets. Nothing of what had happened could be undone anymore. Patrick didn’t give an answer.

 

When he looked over to Pete, warm under the blanket, safe from strangers harming him– again, Patrick felt like he had made the right decision, given the circumstances, at least. Maybe somewhere, in a distant parallel universe, they were all a little happier, and Pete would have been laying in his bed not as a whore, but as –

Patrick sighed. _Pete wouldn’t be laying in my bed at all_ , he told himself, frowning. _He would lead a better life, away from terrible, disgusting people like me_.

 

A hand on Patrick’s face interrupted his self-deprecating thoughts. “Sorry for such a downer bedtime story,” Pete said, running his thumb over Patrick’s cheek. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

 

“It’s fine,” Patrick answered, leaning a little closer into Pete’s touch. It felt comforting and reassuring, nothing like their usual touches. “I’m glad you told me your real name.”

 

“I don’t tell it to everyone,” Pete admitted, “just the customers I expect to be back. If we fuck on a regular basis, might as well make it a little more personal, right?”

 

Patrick furrowed his brows. “How did you know that I would be back?”

 

A grin spread over Pete’s face, this time with the usual smugness behind it. “Come on, Patrick, I’ve learned a thing or two. I’ve seen the looks you sent me, how your car slowed down conveniently whenever you drove by _my_ spot. And then, you took me _home_ right on the first time you hired me?” He batted his eyes. “I knew you would want more of me.”

 

_You knew how to make me_ **_want_ ** _more_ was on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, but it went unsaid. That was obvious anyway. He averted his eyes, and bit his lip to avoid spilling out an embarrassing answer: _yes, Pete, you’re right, I want more, more, more – I want everything of you, Pete, please_.

 

The playfulness vanished from Pete’s attitude, replaced by a thoughtful look. “I’m sorry, Patrick,” he whispered while running his thumb over Patrick’s cheek again, and the apologetic tone in his voice sounded genuine. “I wish I had better words for you, or a happier story to tell.”

 

There was a moment of silence, then Pete hastily withdrew his hand. When Patrick looked at him, Pete looked away, brows furrowed, with visible regret in his expression. When he met Patrick’s eyes again, the forced smile was proof that Pete had barricaded himself behind the usual hooker behavior, unwilling to dwell on his words any further.

 

“How do you want me to wake you up tomorrow?” The false sweetness was back in his voice, feeling off, especially after the somber words from before. “Want me to wake you up with a blowjob? Or with my hands on your cock? Or with _me_ on your cock? Or -?”

“No, no. Nothing like that, please.” Patrick shook his head, a little overwhelmed by the sudden change in attitude. “I’ll set my alarm, and that will be enough, thanks.” He sat up, and looked back to Pete, who still held up his false smile. “Uh, how long are you staying tomorrow?”

 

“Nine in the morning.”

 

“Nine?” Patrick repeated, slightly disappointed. He had hoped for a little longer, and he wasn’t exactly keen on waking up earlier than necessary.

 

Pete raised his brows. “Well, it’s not my problem you want to waste your time with sleeping,” he said dismissively, making it clear that this rule was not up for discussion.

 

With slight regret, Patrick set his alarm, and swore to himself that next time, he would plan Pete’s stay a little better.

 

He lay down again, and once more, he felt how exhaustion took its toll on his body. _Next time_ , Patrick promised himself, _next time, I’ll do everything better_. “Come on, you can barely keep your eyes open,” he heard Pete say, followed by another obnoxious chuckle. “Go to sleep.”

 

“Well, good night, Pete,” he mumbled, and he felt an involuntary smile forming on his lips. Knowing that this was his real name, a little piece of the real Pete underneath the façade, made it sound even more precious.

 

“Finally, a little smile for me, huh?” Pete said, amusement swinging in his voice.

 

“Hey, Pete. One last thing. I want to wake up next to you tomorrow,” Patrick mumbled, and his words came out as weak and vulnerable as he felt. “Please don’t leave me, okay?”

 

“Leave?” Pete repeated. “I won’t leave. I’m not a scam. I’ll be here in the morning, don’t worry.”

Patrick nodded, too tired for an answer. He closed his eyes, but Pete wasn’t done talking. Patrick heard how he shuffled a little closer, and though the next words were spoken in a whisper, Pete’s voice was much clearer than before.

 

“Where would I even go, hm?”

 

It was a question Patrick didn’t know how to answer. And it was that lack of an answer that was so frightening.  

 

“There is no safe place to go,” he heard Pete whisper, accompanied by a sharp, joyless version of his ugly laugh. “No place to go at all.”

 

It sounded like a mantra, worn out words repeated countless times in his head before. Like years of loneliness compressed into one sentence. Patrick opened his eyes a little, but didn’t dare to look into Pete’s eyes. He shyly extended his arm, but his hands found nothing but thin air. Pete had retreated to the other side of the bed, out of reach for him again.

 

“Good night, Patrick.” Pete’s voice was cold and determined, and Patrick knew these would be the last words he would get out of him today.

 

In between all the chaotic thoughts and emotions swirling in his head, Patrick eventually fell asleep; still seeing tan skin and black hair behind closed eyelids, as well as a pair of brown eyes that followed him into the abyss of unsettling dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading! 
> 
> You can find more of my art on my tumblr [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com), I promise I'm a real artist who draws more than self-indulgent Peterick. 
> 
> Please considerleaving a comment and tell me your thoughts, I'm always eager to hear those! Feedback is what keeps me going!


	8. I Want The One I Can't Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey look, an update that didn't take six weeks!!
> 
> Thanks to the lovely Snitches for beta-reading and always encouraging me so much!
> 
> Ah, and what is that, you wanted more art you say? No? Well too bad, you're getting it anyway. Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

Patrick was awoken by a hand grabbing his shoulder, and a voice talking over the distant sound of his alarm.

 

“Damn it, wake _up_.”

 

Usually, Patrick had no problem ignoring his alarm for a little longer, and waking up early was not one of his favorite activities. But with the hand of someone else on his body, with someone else in his bed, his brain quickly forgot his usual attitude about waking up early. Patrick rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to make sense of the situation, until a blurry flash of tan skin entered his field of vision, nudging his shoulders again.

 

“Patrick, seriously, _wake up_. Your alarm’s been going for ten minutes, and it’s really starting to get annoying. It’s time to get up.”

 

Perplex, Patrick blinked again, until his vision focused on the person next to him. Black hair, furrowed brows, clothes that revealed more of his tattooed skin than they hid, and finally, Patrick realized it was _Pete_ who was in his bed – right, he remembered, he had paid the hooker to stay the night. He rubbed his eyes again as he sat up, and managed to shut off the alarm.

 

“Fucking finally. I thought you’d never wake up. You sure like wasting the time you paid for with sleeping.”

 

Patrick only gave a grunt as an answer. There was another man, no, a _hooker_ in his bed, who had just pulled him out of his sleep, and then started to talk way too much and all at once. Patrick could barely process that there was someone else next to him, there was no way he could make proper sense of Pete’s words right now.

“There, you woke up next to me. Isn’t that what you asked for? So, now that you’re finally awake,” Pete continued, but Patrick held up his hand and shook his head. “Shut up, please,” he said, trying his best to form a coherent sentence and not have a major freak out. “I, uh. Give me a minute, okay?”

The situation was too much too handle right now. He decided to skip the freak out for now, and go to the bathroom first. Mostly to escape the hooker still sitting next to him. Normally he was reluctant to leave his warm, comfortable bed, especially that early in the morning. But now that Pete occupied it, it was an entirely different matter.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Patrick felt dried sweat on his skin, the dirty aftermath of yesterday’s dirty activities still clinging to his body. He wrinkled his nose. He decided to take a quick shower to get clean, and to wake up a little more.

Once he was done, Patrick realized he hadn’t brought any clean clothes with him to the shower. He had no choice but to go back to his bedroom, where Pete was still sitting in his bed.  In nothing but a towel, hair still wet and unruly, feeling weirdly exposed.

 _Isn’t this usually Pete’s part?_ His mind taunted him, and Patrick gritted his teeth. He didn’t even know why he cared. Pete had seen him naked just a few hours prior. But in the broad daylight, it felt different. More intimate, and off; another line crossed, and another insight given.

As he went back to the bedroom, Patrick cursed his old self from yesterday for making such terrible decisions. He cursed himself for thinking this had been a good idea.

Pete was still sitting on the bed, legs crossed, eyeing him smugly. It was clear that he was amused by seeing his client so undone, and Patrick suppressed a frustrated sigh. At least he kept quiet while Patrick hastily put on a shirt and some underwear, cursing the traitorous blush he felt forming on his face.

Mostly, Patrick cursed himself for how, deep down, it had felt nice, a little too nice to wake up next to Pete.

 

_Have I woken up next to Pete, though?_

 

Thinking back of yesterday evening, Patrick recalled the cautious distance between them, and the obvious denial of intimacy. With a subtle glance over his shoulder, he also realized Pete looked a little too perfect for someone who had just woken up – hair carefully arranged, clothes still neat and tidy (and Patrick couldn’t recall Pete getting fully dressed yesterday evening), and _fuck_ , there was even that stupid make up around his eyes, looking even more silly in daylight. It couldn’t fully conceal the hint of tiredness in them, making Patrick wonder if Pete had slept at all. He doubted it. Pete didn’t seem to trust him enough to be that vulnerable around him.

 _To a hooker, I woke up next to a hooker_ , Patrick reminded himself, _a hooker, don’t forget_.

He sighed, and decided that he could deal with such conflicts later. Either way, there was a guy in his bed whom he had paid to be there, and Patrick had to deal with him somehow.

Pete tilted his head. “Anything you want to do, Patrick? Any wishes left? Want me to take care of your morning wood? Or –“

“Nothing,” Patrick interrupted, overwhelmed by so much talking. He still felt like he was half-asleep, and sex was the furthest thing from his mind right now. “I just need you to shut up. It’s way too early to talk this much. And breakfast, we need that too.”

“I wouldn’t mind having your cock for breakfast,” Pete said with a wink, and Patrick sighed.

“I meant real breakfast. You know, _food_.”

“Later, then,” Pete said with a grin, and Patrick didn’t bother to object to his prediction, just silently led the way to the kitchen. “Uh, are you okay with cereal?” He asked, and Pete shrugged. “Sure.”

They ate in silence, though Pete seemed more interested in pushing his soggy cereal around in the bowl than actually eating anything. Patrick bit back a comment about that, as he suspected that it wouldn’t make a difference anyway.

 

After Patrick had put everything away, and Pete was no longer faced with the task of eating, he seemed to relax a little, and regain his usual attitude. Unsure of what to do next, Patrick just sat down on the chair next to him. He could feel another blush forming on his face as he looked at Pete, words stuck in his throat. He was rewarded with a grin, before Pete decided to speak up.

“We still have a little time left.” He eyed Patrick with curiosity. “How about a nice blowjob? Or a quick fuck? I can’t let you go to work feeling so… Unsatisfied, right? How could you give a good performance at your job if I didn’t do mine properly first?”

“I can do just fine without your help, thanks,” Patrick responded simply, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. As if his creativity relied on Pete. _Not that a blowjob would hurt_ , he fleetingly thought as he eyed Pete’s lips, looking away from them when they curled into a knowing smile. _Damnit_.

A quickie before work couldn’t hurt either. Just to release some tension, like Pete offered. Wasn’t that what he was here for, and wouldn’t it be so easy to just say _yes, yes Pete, please?_

Then again, Patrick didn’t want to be like those other Johns, just using him with no concern for his well-being. He thought back to yesterday evening, saw himself kneeling over Pete while fucking his mouth, remembered the feeling of disgust with himself for being so ignorant towards the signs of discomfort. No, that was _not_ the way he wanted it anymore.

Patrick sighed. “We don’t have to… Don’t feel obliged to do anything.”

He wanted, _always_ wanted Pete, but not this way. There were only so many lies Patrick could stomach, and those were all the wrong kinds of lies.

Before he knew it, Pete stood in front of him, and before he could object, Pete sat down on his lap, looking at him with big eyes. “I’m so _hurt_ by your rejection, Patrick!” He stuck out his lower lip, like a scolded child. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”

 

“Well, I’m not pushing you away right now,” Patrick mumbled, slightly confused by Pete’s behavior. It had this weird sense of desperation behind it that stood in such contrast to Pete’s usual confident act, and his voice had carried the same weird tone, too; the one that let his words sound more like begging than every _please_ he uttered in the bedroom, and Patrick still couldn’t figure out the reason behind that.

“How could you refuse such an offer, hm?” Pete leaned in closer. It became evident that Pete was a much more touchy person than Patrick had thought, boundaries and personal space forgotten when there was something he wanted. It was a new side that Patrick didn’t really know how to handle yet. He almost regretted that he had allowed Pete to touch him so freely.

It made him feel confused, weak. It was a change of rules, and a shift of power.

Worse, Patrick realized it made him want more. So much more, more, _more_ of Pete, and it made him yearn for things he knew were foolish and dangerous to long for: more longing touches, gentle kisses, and words of affection, _true_ affection, that the hooker would never feel for him.

“Come on, Patrick,” Pete hummed; he stood up, took a step back, only to lean over the kitchen table. He braced his arms on the table, and sent Patrick a cocky gaze. “Just something quick. Bend me over the kitchen table. Fast, and rough, and good. Please?” He extended one hand to Patrick. “Don’t be so mean and make me beg in vain. _Please_ , Patrick!”

There was only so much temptation he could resist, and with each time that Pete insisted, Patrick felt his objections dwindle further.

 

He sighed, took Pete’s hand, and stood up.

“You’re a bad influence, you know that?” Patrick murmured, but there was no real bite behind his words. His weak reproach only earned him a laugh, and a smug grin. “Oh, I’m the worst, Patrick, just the worst!” Pete replied, with an undertone that was just a little to dramatic and his smile belying his words. “That’s why you can’t get enough of me.”

That was certainly true, though Patrick didn’t say that out loud. Not that it was needed – his actions were proof enough. He let go of Pete’s hand to wrap his arms around his chest, and pulled him up. Pete let out a small chuckle, and Patrick could feel the vibration of Pete’s laugh in his own chest, under his fingertips, was sure he could taste it as he let his lips graze over Pete’s neck.

“Want me to get rid of this?” Pete pointed at his shirt, and Patrick let go of him. The shirt was carelessly thrown to the floor. Pete hesitated, and held up his hand. “Wait. Just let me get…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence; Patrick already nodded, arousal beginning to color his face pink and pushing away any remaining objections. After a few moments, Pete came back, carefully placing the lube and condoms he carried in his hands on the table. Apparently satisfied by the fact that everything necessary was now within reach, he turned to Patrick with the usual smile back on his lips, as if there hadn’t been any interruption.

Patrick took a step forward, and let his hands wander to the button of Pete’s jeans, before hesitating. “May I?”

“Yeah, sure. Strip me naked, sweet Patrick.” Pete gave him a wink, and another grin.

Patrick undid the button and zipper of Pete’s jeans, and struggled to shove them down. Pete always undressed himself, _and fuck, how does he even do that?_ These pants were way too tight.

Pete must have picked up on Patrick’s frustration, because he let out another laugh, and put his own hands on the waistband of his jeans. “Need some help?”

 

Patrick grumbled, but let go and took a step back. With a few well-practiced movements, Pete wiggled himself out of his pants and underwear, and carelessly kicked them aside. “Don’t worry,” he said with a grin as he noticed Patrick’s undignified expression. “I promise I’ll be more cooperative than my pants…” He leaned against the table, and reached out to tug at Patrick’s boxers. “Why are you still dressed? Come on, no need to be shy.”

As soon as he was undressed though, Patrick felt a wave of insecurity washing over him. Being naked in his dimly lit bedroom at night was one thing, but being naked in broad daylight in his kitchen felt strange. Pete seemed fine with it (not that he had ever shown any signs of being uncomfortable with being naked in the first place, Patrick thought with a hint of jealousy), but Pete was _beautiful_. He always looked _gorgeous_ , even just leaning against the kitchen table, and even with daylight painting harsher shadows under his eyes, highlighting the colorful remains of his injury and the prominence of his bones even more.

“Turn around,” Patrick finally mumbled, relieved that Pete just shrugged his shoulders and did as he was told. It was easier to be confident when Pete wasn’t looking at Patrick’s own imperfections that he tried not to think about, exposed by the same traitorous daylight. He wrapped his arms around Pete’s chest again, and rested his head against Pete’s.

He let his right hand wander down towards Pete’s crotch. The position was a little awkward and impractical; Patrick had given better handjobs in his life. Despite that, he soon felt Pete’s dick harden under his fingers anyway, and felt raised nipples and goosebumps under his left hand, together with the small vibrations of each moan that Pete gave.

“Mmm, good, Patrick… Want me to reciprocate?” Pete looked over his shoulder, but Patrick just shook his head, and tightened his grip around him. “No, just – just stay like that.”

He could see how Pete rolled his eyes before turning his head, but thankfully, he was spared a snarky remark. Instead, Pete gave another soft moan when Patrick’s hand gave his cock another broad stroke. “C’mon, let’s stop teasing. Bend me over, and fuck me, please.”

Patrick withdrew his arms, and Pete leaned forward, spreading his legs a little wider and arching his back.

“Is the position comfortable for you?” Patrick asked, remembering their last encounter, and Pete’s silent struggles. He desperately wanted to avoid that.

“I’m pretty good at taking dick like this.” Pete looked over his shoulder again, and sent him a wink; but that was not enough of an answer. Or rather, it wasn’t what Patrick wanted to hear.

 

“That’s not what I was asking,” Patrick said, and looked away from Pete’s eyes. He fleetingly thought about how many other times the hooker must have ended up like this, with his back to his client and bent over a car seat, against a wall, on someone else’s furniture. How often another anonymous pair of hands had grabbed his hips with just a little too much force, and carelessly shoved fingers and cocks inside of Pete with no concern, because _isn’t he just a whore? He’s used to it, he can take it just like that, and who cares_?

 _No_ , Patrick thought to himself, _I’m not one of those clients,_ **_I_ ** _won’t hurt Pete_.

Pete sighed in annoyance, but added: “If you prep me properly, I’ll have no trouble with your cock. Can we please stop talking, and fuck already? I won’t stand here all day just because you’re so goddamn indecisive.”

Patrick nodded as he reached for the lube to slick up his fingers.

Meanwhile, Pete wrapped his hand around his own cock, teasingly giving himself a few strokes. He let out a tantalizing, drawn-out moan, and sent Patrick a challenging gaze.

He was putting on a show, calculated gestures that he knew his client enjoyed, but damn, it worked.

“Keep doing that,” Patrick said breathlessly, resting his one hand on Pete’s hips, and letting the other wander in between his cheeks. He circled his finger over the ring of muscles. “I’m gonna…”

Pete nodded, giving his cock another broad stroke. “Yes, Patrick, _please_!”

 

With that, Patrick pushed his first finger inside, and soon enough a second. Pete took them with little trouble, showing no signs of struggling or discomfort. On the contrary – Pete soon pushed back against them, letting out an impatient grunt. “Not enough, Patrick. I want more!”

He slipped a third digit into Pete, slowly and with care. A silent gasp came from Pete, who spread his legs a little further and arched his back a little more. Patrick didn’t dare to move, just waited until Pete seemed satisfied with his new positioning. Pete was panting slightly, his hand back to jerking himself off, and he simply sent Patrick a small nod this time to signal him to go on.

Patrick started to move his fingers, trying to find just the right spot. It took a few moments, but then he felt Pete clenching down around him as he let out a whimper. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, and pushed back against Patrick’s fingers, harder and more desperate this time. “Fuck, _fuck_ , Patrick, ah – Right there! Please, don’t stop!”

Patrick continued, each time he did something to Pete’s liking rewarded with more approving sounds. He gave his own cock a lazy stroke, noticing that he was pretty hard already; just pleasing Pete had been enough for that. _Again_.

 

That was probably something he should worry about, though Patrick wasn’t in the right mood to be concerned about such pesky details right now.  

Touching Pete, hearing him let out all these addictive sugary-sweet sounds, seeing him being so turned on by _me, me, me, and me alone_ , was always just too fucking good, and as usual, Patrick didn’t want to think about the why.

He regretted not having more time to draw this out, to do this slowly and without hurry, but he made a mental note to do this next time again. He would give Pete everything, fingers, tongue, cock, his heart, just everything –

An impatient growl interrupted his thoughts. “Hurry up, Patrick!” Pete complained, and looked over his shoulder. Sweat was beginning to gather on his face, and arousal colored it red. “You can’t get me excited for your cock, and then just withhold it from me. Your fingers feel great, but they’re no substitute for the real deal.” He dropped his voice to a low, sultry tone. “Please, I want your dick. Inside of me. _Now_ , preferably.”

“Yeah,” Patrick whispered fervently as he withdrew his hand, “yes, I want that, too.”

“I know you do!” Pete laughed as he turned around with one of the condoms already in his hand. “Here, let me get you ready.” Patrick nodded, and the rubber was rolled over him in a precise movement. Pete examined his work for a moment, as if to make sure he had done it properly, then nodded in approval. He turned around and leaned over the table again, while Patrick hastily spread more lube over himself, then grabbed Pete’s hips, ready to start.

 

There it was, the familiar hot tightness embracing his cock, and the usual small moans filling up his ears. Once he was all the way in, Patrick paused for a moment to just take in the feeling of being inside of Pete, and to let him adjust properly.

“You okay?” He asked, trailing his hands over Pete’s back, and letting them rest on his hips again, thumbs pressed into the two dimples.

The question was answered with a scoff. “I’m good. I told you, Patrick, make it fast and rough. I can take it.”

“But –“

“I _want_ to take it this way. Have I made myself clear? Can you fucking stop with this bullshit now?” Annoyance swung in Pete’s voice, and he turned his head to send Patrick an equally annoyed glance. “What? Need me to beg some more to convince you?”

Patrick shook his head. Oh, he wanted to hear Pete beg, but not because he was told to, no. He wanted Pete to beg and whimper because he made him do it, not forced him into it.

He started to move, a few slow thrusts first; then, he almost slid all the way out before slamming back in, hard and fast. Pete gasped, and buried his head in his arms. “Mmm, yeah, good,” he mumbled, words slightly muffled. “More of that, Patrick.”

Patrick didn’t give a response, but made sure to repeat that a few times in between rough, smaller thrusts, each time causing Pete to gasp again. He tightened the grip of his left hand around Pete’s hip, and leaned forward to reach for Pete’s dick with his other hand. He gave it a few strokes, only to be rewarded with another gasp, and another series of soft moans.

He could feel Pete pushing back against his cock, squeezing down around it while he let out a whimper, and Patrick had to bite his lip and close his eyes. Fuck, he could already feel he wouldn’t last too long. But before that, Patrick wanted to try something else. He remembered Pete’s words from yesterday; he just wanted to see if he had been right.

“Wanna change positions,” Patrick said, trying to sound composed. “Let’s… Let’s try something.” He pulled out, and Pete turned around, brows raised. Patrick gestured towards the table, but before he could explain further, Pete let out his ugly, endearing laugh, then grinned. “Yeah, let’s _try something_ ,” he repeated with amusement as he sat on the table. Patrick took a step closer, and Pete spread his legs to let him get in between. “That what you had in mind, hm?” He asked, not bothering to hide the smugness in his voice. “Fucking me on the table, like this?”

Patrick nodded as he felt his face heat up; he received another laugh and a “Go ahead, then!” whispered into his ear.

 

Much to Patrick’s relief, the kitchen table was indeed the perfect height. Pete held still as Patrick pushed his cock back inside of him. Patrick soothingly stroke over Pete’s hips while he struggled for a moment, trying to figure out how to position himself before finally wrapping his legs around Patrick’s waist in the right angle. He lay his arms around Patrick’s chest, and let out a satisfied grunt. “Yeah, that’s good,” he said, slightly panting, but with the same smugness as before swinging in his voice. “So, despite your protest yesterday, we’re fucking on the kitchen table now anyway?” He threw his head back and let out another laugh, and Patrick felt it traveling through his own body. “Ah, I knew you couldn’t resist me, Patrick…”

“Shut up,” Patrick replied indignantly, knowing that the stupid blush on his face gave away his embarrassment and agitation anyway. “Let’s just… Can I move now?”

“Oh, yes, please!” The smug undertone in Pete’s voice had now been traded for seductiveness. “You’re right, I should shut up. Or maybe, you can make me moan your name instead…”

Patrick’s brain was too clouded with arousal to properly process this thought, or give back a witty reply. Instead, he gritted his teeth, and started to move again.

“Yeah, ah – fuck, like that, Patrick -!” Pete dug his nails deeper into Patrick’s back, and lay his head against Patrick’s shoulder. “Touch me, please,” he whispered, and Patrick reached for Pete’s cock again, starting to jerk him off again.  

Pete’s trembling lips were leaving wet marks on Patrick’s skin as he kept moaning, his dick leaking precum over Patrick’s hand, and then Pete was squeezing so fucking tight around him again, and Patrick simply couldn’t hold back. He let out a surprised gasp, followed by a grunt as he pulled Pete closer, closer, closer and fuck, _fuck_ –

 

Patrick came, a half-choked whimper of Pete’s name dying on his lips.

Slightly overwhelmed by his orgasm, Patrick kept his eyes closed, and stopped moving; everything was just too much, too close, too intense.

Pete was still grinding against him, heels still digging into Patrick’s thighs as he clenched down on him again. Patrick couldn’t help but wince – he was still hard, but too sensitive after coming. Noticing his reaction, Pete loosened his grip, and lifted his head. “Did you -?”

Patrick just nodded, feeling slightly dizzy as reality slowly crept back into his mind.

A small sigh from Pete was the answer, then, he motioned Patrick to pull out. Despite his trembling fingers, Pete removed the condom from Patrick’s cock with one swift move. He eyed his client with raised brows, expecting him to move, but Patrick didn’t want it to end like that. He placed his hands back on Pete’s slightly shaking thighs, light touches that were rewarded with goosebumps and a soft hum from Pete.

“’m sorry,” Patrick whispered, embarrassment flooding up on him. “That was pathetic.”

“It’s okay.” Pete shrugged, and let out a small chuckle, different than his usual ugly bark. “Guess I’m just too sexy, hm?”

Patrick didn’t respond, just loosely wrapped his fingers around Pete’s dick again. “But I want you to come, too – uhm, if you still want to, I mean…?” He got another throaty laugh in response, and Pete leaned closer. “Fuck, of course I want to come, Patrick!”

He placed the used condom he had still been holding in his hand next to him on the table. It was an uncharacteristically careless gesture, going against his usual attitude towards handling this, but Patrick couldn’t be bothered about that right now. Pete’s cock was still hot and hard under his fingers, aching to be touched, and that cancelled out every other concern he had right now.

Pete threw his arms around Patrick’s waist, and buried his head in the nape of his neck. “Won’t take long, I promise,” he whispered in a husky voice, “c’mon, I’m so close…”  

Patrick tightened his grip around Pete’s dick, and lay his other hand between his legs. “Want me to -?”

“Yes, please,” Pete interrupted him. “I want, I want!”

Patrick slipped two fingers inside of him with no trouble; Pete was still slicked up and loose from fucking, and feeling that sent a wave of heat through Patrick. He was still far from being able to get hard anytime soon, but it was still fucking hot seeing Pete like this. It wasn’t a view he had ever gotten before.

 

He started to jerk him off, fast and rough, while Pete clung close to him, thighs still trembling, and muttering something that sounded like Patrick’s name. The latter was probably for show, given his cocky words from before. But even so, each stuttered iteration of his name wormed its way directly into Patrick’s heart. A wave of possessiveness washed over him – he wanted to kiss Pete, lick over his lips, try how his name tasted on Pete’s mouth. Bite into the soft skin, and make him promise that _Patrick’s_ name would be the one and only name to ever come over his lips, _mine and mine alone – please, Pete, whatever it takes –_

Patrick did his best to suppress such dangerous thoughts, and to focus on the task at hand. He regretted that they didn’t have more time for more than a rushed handjob, and tried to push away the thought of why there wasn’t time for more: Because Pete would have to leave, vanish, would soon be out of reach again no matter how close he currently clung to him.

But for now, there was cock in his hand, already leaking, and Patrick could feel him clenching down around his fingers. Pete’s hushed breath against Patrick’s neck, and his moans filling up Patrick’s ears, sweet and intoxicating as always. It was all that mattered for now, and Patrick tried to take in as much of it as possible, to store the memories away for later, for lonelier times, for when the hooker wasn’t here, for when they were both alone again.

Pete let out a groan, and dug his heels into Patrick’s thighs. “Please, Patrick,” he gasped, “’m so fucking close – ah, just a little more, please!” Patrick increased speed, and it didn’t take long until Pete let out a muffled whimper, and Patrick felt him come, muscles tightening around his digits and cock throbbing and spilling over his hand as Pete kept whimpering. Patrick continued to stroke him until Pete fell silent, the sound of him breathing heavily replacing every other sound in Patrick’s ears.

Patrick withdrew his fingers, and let go of Pete’s dick to wrap his arms around him. For a moment, Pete leaned into the touch, and for a moment, Patrick forgot about everything else. There was just Pete’s body, warm and familiar, soft golden skin stretching over hard bones, _safe_ in Patrick’s arms. Pete’s heartbeat traveling through his chest, and Pete’s breath against his skin, Pete, Pete, _Pete_.

 

But soon enough, Pete sat up again, with the same strange expression hardening his face as yesterday, and Patrick remembered – the hooker wasn’t here for heartfelt affection and cuddling. Still, Patrick couldn’t help but lightly trace over the fading remains of teeth and someone else’s mouth on Pete’s collarbone. “Looks better than yesterday. It’s healing -“

Before Patrick could finish his sentence, his hand was pushed away. “Don’t,” Pete hissed, “I told you, don’t do that.”

“Sorry.” Patrick looked away, and took a step back.

Pete wordlessly stood up, stretched his limbs, and let out a small breath before his eyes fell on the used condom still laying on the table. Patrick saw how he winced. “Shit, I’m sorry. Should’ve gotten rid of this earlier,” he mumbled, not meeting Patrick’s eyes. It was evident that he wasn’t too happy with the fact that he had simply forgotten about it.

A slight suspicion crept up on Patrick – that maybe, Pete had forgotten about more than the condom. That the more Patrick invaded his mind, the more questions he threw at him, the more Pete started to forget about other rules, and other boundaries he hadn’t meant to break. Gave in a little too much, and let down his guard in the process.

Suddenly, Patrick wondered how much the rest of Pete’s behavior had been his usual well-practiced play, and how much of it hadn’t. How many of his gestures were just calculated, how many of his moans were still faked, and had each time Patrick’s name had come over his lips really been intentional?

 

“It’s fine,” Patrick replied softly, but Pete stayed silent. Patrick watched him throw the used condom away, gather his clothes, and make his way to the bathroom. Once he heard the door shut behind him, a heavy feeling settled in Patrick’s chest.

Was this all still part of an act, and Patrick was just a fool blinded by his feelings? No, Patrick had heard enough lies from Pete to know when he was being dishonest, or selling him his colorful illusions. Then what else was going on?

It was just supposed to be one last quick fuck before Pete left. Something fast and fun, without much care behind it. Instead, Patrick felt like the supposedly harmless sex, though over fast, had still managed to leave a deeper impression on both of them than it should. Or maybe, just brought out something that had been boiling for a while, just waiting to be released. Not the usual dark side that had been there first, but still something wicked, something wrong, something dangerous and destructive.

It was obvious that Pete had noticed, too, and that he wasn’t happy about that.

They were standing on thin ice, and with each step into this new, dangerous and forbidden territory, more and more cracks appeared beneath their feet.

 

With panic, Patrick wondered how long they could keep up their usual game until someone gave in, until everything blew up or quietly imploded, until the inevitable ugly end arrived.

By the time he had finally managed to wash his hands and put on his boxers, Pete came back into the kitchen, already fully dressed and ready to leave. He threw the lube and remaining condoms into his backpack, while Patrick put on his shirt.

“See? Wasn’t that a nice way to start your day?” Pete remarked, but neither his playful tone nor the matching grin could fully conceal the strain behind his words, the smallest hint of sadness and regret. Patrick just nodded; it was neither the right time nor the right place to discuss this any further. He gently pulled Pete closer, and buried his head in the crook of his neck. Pete didn’t reciprocate the hug, but neither did he object.

“Yeah, it was a nice way to start the day.” Patrick was glad that he had managed to keep his voice firm and even, and was even more glad that Pete couldn’t see his face right now.

The heavy feeling in his chest only got worse, making it harder to breathe as the realization settled in that Pete would have to leave now, only to be be out of his reach and back into the reach of someone else. Pete would be held by someone else, touched by other people’s hands, paid to smile and moan for other strangers.

Money had bought him Pete’s safety for today, but what about every other night that would come? What about every other night that came before? What would his money buy Pete – would it pay his rent, let him have a warm meal, or be exchanged for drugs? Would it pay for his slow demise, or his well-being?

A million questions raced through Patrick’s head, and the knowledge that he wouldn’t get an answer to them anytime soon (or never, maybe) felt infuriating and unfair. He unconsciously tightened his grip; he didn’t want Pete to leave, he didn’t, he didn’t…

“Time’s up, Patrick,” Pete whispered. “You need to let go of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick mumbled as he let go, though he wasn’t sure what exactly he was apologizing for. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything_ , and Patrick wanted to beg Pete to _stay, please, don’t go; I want to keep you safe, I want to help you, please – there has to be something I can do?_

But one look at Pete’s expression, cold and determined, made him hold back his words, knowing that they would be in vain. There was nothing Patrick could do, as always, but it hurt like never before.

 

Patrick followed him to the door, where Pete turned around. He seemed to have regained his composure, because the usual small semi-smile was back on his lips as he came closer, hands behind his back.

“Oh, please take me home with you again soon…” Pete let out a long-drawn sigh. “The streets are so cold and lonely without you. You won’t forget about me, right? You’ll come back to me, right?” He lowered his head, looking at Patrick through half-veiled eyes. “I will be waiting for you, Patrick. I’ll miss you so much…!” He stretched out his arm, and instinctively, Patrick took a step back. But that did not provide enough distance – Pete was still close enough to place his hand on Patrick’s chest, fingers splayed out over it in a possessive gesture. “Yours and _yours alone_ , dear Patrick,” he whispered, false sweetness in his voice masquerading whatever truth may have been behind them.

Patrick didn’t answer. Patrick _couldn’t_ answer; not that a response was necessary. He silently brushed Pete’s hand off his chest, but he knew that it still held his heart in a too-tight grip.

An ugly bark fell from Pete’s mouth, and left his pretty lips twisted into a cruel smile.

“See you, Patrick.”

Then he was out the door, leaving behind a distressed client in the quietness of the now empty apartment.

 

 

The silence in his apartment had never been more deafening. Slowly, Patrick went back into the living room. He suddenly remembered that Pete had been listening to music yesterday, and had left everything in a mess. Curiosity sparked in Patrick: What had Pete been listening to? He went over to his stereo – only to find everything cleaned up neat and tidy. Pete must have put everything away while Patrick had been sleeping. It didn’t seem like an act of politeness, but rather something he had done to cautiously hide this side of him from Patrick. He gritted his teeth, disappointment flooding him. _Of course_.

Patrick couldn’t help but take a quick look around – no, everything valuable was still there. Pete really wasn’t a thief then, unless someone gave him a reason to take a little extra.

Pete was out of Patrick’s life again. But the sadness in his eyes was still etched into Patrick’s mind, skin burning from where Pete had touched it, and everything in Patrick was aching for more.

 

That day at the studio, Patrick knew what needed to be done.

 

It didn’t take long to find out Gabe’s whereabouts, though Patrick wasn’t prepared to face rest of the band being with him as well. But before he knew it, everyone but Gabe had found an excuse to leave the room. That was just a tad too convenient to be a coincidence. _Great, so everyone knows,_ Patrick thought to himself with a silent sigh.

Vicky had even sent Patrick a wink, no doubt knowing what had happened between him and her bandmate. Patrick swallowed. Vicky was a nice girl, he would have loved to make friends with her, but what was the point? She would go on tour in a few days, would be away for months, and take a bandmate with her that was about to get dumped by Patrick. Not the ideal base for any kind of friendship.

“Hey, babe,” Gabe said with a smile, as he sat down on the table. “So, you finally came to _me_ for once?”

Patrick nodded, but didn’t look him in the eyes. That one time he had finally found the courage to approach Gabe, and it was only to reject him.

“What can I do for you, sugar?” Gabe grinned. “Do you want to be a bad boy and make out with me a little? Want _me_ to be a really bad boy, and drag you into the bathroom to suck you off? Or do you want me to keep my promise, and go take you out on a proper date first?”

“None of that,” Patrick blurted out as an answer. “Gabe, I…” He trailed off, before taking a deep breath. There was no way to avoid it any longer. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Gabe looked surprised, before sadness tainted his smile. “Look, Patrick, I know it would be hard. My band is going on tour next week, and we’ll be away for weeks – for months. It’s not ideal, yes, but I still want to ask you for a chance. I like you, Patrick, no, I more than just like you. Is there no way we could make this work?”

“There’s someone else.” Patrick bit his lip. That was probably the dumbest, rudest answer he could have given Gabe, and he hated himself for it. He hated even more that this was the truth. But he was so fucking sick and tired of lying, and he was done with pretending to himself. “Someone else,” Gabe repeated slowly, and shook his head. “So, that’s it?”

“It’s someone I can’t be with. Ever,” Patrick said. He didn’t even know why he was telling him this, Gabe certainly must have been the last person interested in hearing about the other guy in Patrick’s life, but Patrick couldn’t stop himself. For all the pretending he had done with Gabe, he at least owed him an explanation. “But I can’t stop thinking about that person, I can’t help feeling what I feel, and… I can’t do this, Gabe.”

 

Gabe sighed. “Well, to be honest, I’m not that surprised. I suspected something like that. It’s something that’s been going on for a while, hm?” Gabe asked. Patrick just shrugged, and winced when he realized whose gesture he was imitating. “How do you know that?”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Patrick,” Gabe answered, harsher than usual. “Don’t you think I notice when someone doesn’t want to open up to me? Don’t you think I notice your hesitation when we kiss, almost every time? Don’t you think I notice that there’s someone else on your mind when we fuck?” He sighed again, now calmer than before. “Whatever. I guess I’m the fool here. I thought I could win you over anyway.”

“I like you, Gabe,” Patrick said, and no matter how lame that sounded, at least that bit was true. “And I _wanted_ it to be more. I just… It just didn’t work out.”

“Tell me, Patrick,” Gabe said with a bitter smile, “what was I was for you then? A convenient substitute? An easy lay?”

 

Patrick winced, because there was a certain truth in Gabe’s words. He had been accepting his affections for selfish needs, had tried to pretend. In a way, he had been using Gabe for his own selfish needs; _just like Pete_ , a thought which made him feel sick to his stomach. He was done with that.

 

“You were more than that,” Patrick replied quietly. It was true, Gabe was more than that – Gabe was hope and a dream of normality and sanity. _It was just a shame I couldn’t accept any of that._ “And I wanted, I wish I could give you any of that back, I just – there’s…”

 

 _There’s this hooker I’m falling for_ , Patrick ended the sentence in his head, but there was no way he could say that out loud in front of Gabe right now. Thinking it alone, fully admitting it to himself for the first time was enough to make him shudder, have the rising panic in him kill the words in the back of his throat.

Seeing the disappointment and defeat on Gabe’s face hurt, it hurt so fucking much, and Patrick couldn’t deny he was the one to blame. He was the one who dragged Gabe along, he was the one who lead him on, _and I’m the one who is falling for a prostitute like an_ _idiot_.

 

“You deserve someone better.” Patrick hated how small his voice sounded, hated that it had to end like that, hated that all he had to offer were cliched lines. Most of all, he hated the tears stinging in his eyes, hated his weakness, _why, just why does it have to be this way_?

Gabe motioned him to come closer, and on impulse, Patrick just followed, and let himself get pulled into a hug. It was the second time this day he had ended up between the legs of an attractive guy sitting on a table, and both times were laced with sadness and regret. Patrick wasn’t much of a crier, but this time, right here with Gabe, he couldn’t hold back the tears he had kept at bay whenever he was with Pete. They had been building up for so long, and Patrick felt too weak to fight them anymore.

It didn’t last long, merely a minute of choked-back sobs, accompanied by Gabe somewhat awkwardly patting his back, unsure of how to react. Patrick angrily wiped over his eyes afterwards, and kept his head down. No way he could look at Gabe right now, face all reddened and ugly from crying over someone else, crying over failed relationships that never had a chance and the ones he knew would never have one in the first place – _pathetic, just pathetic_.

 

“Love is a bitch, huh?” Gabe sighed as he gave Patrick another awkward pat.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered, “I really am, Gabe. For everything. I wish I could’ve been a better person, someone worthier of you.”

“ _Worthier_?” Gabe shook his head. “Damn, Patrick, you need to sort out your issues. You’re cute, talented, creative, and I really grew fond of you. It’s just a shame you never believed me when I told you any of that.”

Patrick stayed quiet. Gabe didn’t know about Patrick hiring illegal prostitutes, Gabe didn’t know about his feelings for a hooker. Gabe hadn’t seen the apathy in William’s eyes or the desperation in Pete’s face, Gabe wasn’t aware of the awful things Patrick had thought, said, and done.

Gabe gave him a small, chaste kiss on the forehead, before he gently motioned Patrick to take a step back so that he could stand up. “Thanks for your amazing work on our album,” Gabe said softly, “even if things between the two of us didn’t work out, I’d love to work with you again one day.”

“So would I,” Patrick replied, relaxing enough to allow himself a small smile. “Have fun on tour, enjoy yourself.”

A short nod, one last smile, then Gabe left, left like everyone else in Patrick’s life.

 

Patrick couldn’t deny a pang of jealousy – Gabe would go on tour, play music in front of a screaming audience, be a rock star, performer, entertainer loved by the crowd.  He would have the chance to get laid in every part of the country if he wanted to, pick whomever he liked, all the pretty boys and girls he desired. Gabe would get over him soon enough, Patrick was sure of that.

All Patrick was left with was the impending sense of dread, the knowledge that he was developing dangerous emotions for Pete, and the gloomy hunch that all of this could only end badly.

 

 

 

 

Once the door fell shut behind him, Pete allowed himself a sigh, and forbid his mind from re-examining everything that had just happened. It didn’t matter. It was all in the past. Nothing that his clients did had any impact on him. The door was closed, the job was done, and Pete grit his teeth as he went down the stairs, not allowing himself to look back.

It was a nice neighborhood Patrick lived in. All new apartment complexes and new middle-class money. And a fancy coffee shop, too. Pete pondered his options: the coffee would be ridiculously overpriced, and he would stick out like a sore thumb the second he entered the shop. On the other hand, he had made good money with Patrick last night, and who gave a shit what these assholes thought about him?

The place was pretty empty. No surprise, because _normal_ people were at work, at _normal_ jobs, during _daytime_. A bored looking barista took his order, and took way too much time to make it, leaving Pete with nothing to do but wait.

At least none of the few people in the shop were staring at him. It took Pete a while to realize than nobody paid attention simply because none of these people would ever suspect some hooker from the street casually strolling into their little world. They couldn’t even imagine people like him existed, let alone so close to them. They lived in their own little bubbles of mortgages, tax evasions, or whatever else regular people who weren’t _cheap whores_ worried about.

 

Pete tried to focus on something else. He eyed the assortment of equally overpriced sandwiches, only to recall some of the looks Patrick had sent him yesterday, and his sudden insistence on food. A sudden flash of paranoia took over his mind – why had Patrick looked at him like that? Was there something wrong?

 _No_ Pete tried to calm himself, _no, everything is fine. I’m still pretty. Hell, Patrick even told me that_.

Sure, there used to be more muscles on his body, back when he had still participated in sports and spent time working out. Only a shadow of those were left. But he still looked fine. He was still handsome. Besides, skinny, fragile and pretty, that’s what clients wanted to see, so naturally, Pete needed to deliver. There was no need for fucking _Patrick_ of all people to worry. _There’s no need for_ **_me_ ** _to worry_ , Pete thought with anger, _fuck, I can’t let him make me insecure about my body as well._

Pete balled his hands into fists, and sent a silent _fuck you_ to Patrick. It couldn’t keep the voices in his head at bay though. What if Patrick didn’t like what he saw anymore? What if Pete couldn’t cover up his flaws well enough? _What if there are too many cracks, and I’ll break apart?_

 

Gritting his teeth, Pete tried not to panic. The last thing he needed was a mental breakdown in this shitty overpriced middle-class café. He took a deep breath, and tried to reassure himself that everything was fine. And considering how Patrick had been all over his body, eager to let his fingers and tongue wander over every part of it, there couldn’t be anything wrong with it, right?

Pete wanted to scream, smash his fist against the counter, swallow whatever pill his hands would find first in his backpack. Instead, he grabbed his coffee, hesitated, and turned back to the barista. “You know what? I changed my mind – I’ll have a sandwich with that.”

 

 

The walk home didn’t take long. Gentrification hadn’t reached the neighboring district, which was still old and rundown. _Walking just a few minutes could take you to entirely different worlds_ , Pete thought grimly. And of course, _his_ world was a mess.

The first thing Pete did was to take a shower. Feeling less gross, he let himself fall down on his mattress. He considered getting dressed – it really was too cold to stay naked, especially when one couldn’t always afford to keep the heater running – but none of the clothes within his reach looked clean enough. With a sigh, Pete rolled on his back, and stared up to the wall.

 _What Patrick would do if he saw me like this, splayed out naked on a bed_? Pete grinned; oh, he knew exactly how Patrick would look at him, with the same sense of adoration and despair he always had when he looked at him. With hunger, and with lust.

 

Pete snickered as he put a hand on his dick. Oh, Patrick would love this, would love seeing Pete all pretty; and he’d let Patrick watch, let him squirm, torn between holding back, and wanting to give in, wanting to throw all common sense overboard and just touch him.

 _But no, I wouldn’t allow him to_ , Pete thought to himself, and he felt a small smile forming on his lips. He playfully gave his dick another stroke, imagining the shock on Patrick’s face when confronted with denial.

Patrick had been so obedient this last time, so unusually subdued, and hadn’t he told Pete he wouldn’t do anything Pete didn’t want to? _Ah, it would be fun to play with that new attitude of his_ , Pete concluded, as he continued to lazily stroke his cock. Yeah, he would tell Patrick to stop, and he could imagine Patrick’s face twisted in despair and disappointment.

 _Well, I’m busy here. I’m afraid you need to touch yourself if you wanna get off_ , he told imaginary Patrick, and Pete almost laughed when he imagined Patrick’s reaction, something between embarrassment and anger, soon to be replaced with arousal. _Like always_. He knew exactly how to push Patrick’s buttons, and he was sure that he wouldn’t be met with any resistance, or complaints. No, Patrick would soon overcome his inhibitions, and follow Pete’s instructions. He would kneel at the other end of the bed, close enough to watch, but far enough away that he couldn’t give into temptation to just touch Pete anyway.

 

The denial would be fun, and also, just the appropriate punishment; why did Patrick keep trying to ask all these questions, why did he have to acknowledge the bruises? Pete flinched as he recalled those stupid worried looks as Patrick had run his finger over the remains of the bitemark; why couldn’t Patrick just pretend not to see it? Him acknowledging Pete’s bruises somehow made them more real, more important, as if it was something that mattered _. It doesn’t_ , Pete reminded himself, _it fucking doesn’t._ He decided to stop thinking about that, and instead, conjure a nicer image in his head.

 

Patrick would be naked already, Pete decided; yeah, clothes were stupid and only got in the way, and it was always fun to see Patrick blush, see the effect he had on Patrick’s body. Pete could feel his dick harden under his hands, smug satisfaction flooding him.

Ah, but no, just touching his cock wouldn’t be enough. Pete smiled to himself as he took two of his fingers into his mouth, coating them in spit. He hated when clients did that – they already left enough dirt on him, and Pete could really do without their saliva on and in his ass. Pete shook his head. Whatever, that didn’t matter right now anyway.

His other hand wandered in between his legs. _So dirty, Patrick!_ Pete hummed at the imaginary Patrick, _look what you are making me do…_ A small laugh escaped his lips when he thought about Patrick’s reaction to that – more blushing, and probably some mumbled words of embarrassment while he furrowed his brows and bit his lip. Patrick was so predictable.

Pete teased himself a bit, spread his legs a little wider, circled over his hole – he was putting on a show, after all, and it would be a damn good one! –  then, sank his first finger into himself. He could see the imaginary Patrick’s eyes widen, almost comically, and hear him let out a small moan. He always tried so hard to hold these back, but Pete wasn’t going to have any of that. He knew exactly how to get what he wanted, and he wanted to hear Patrick moan; each time he did, it felt like a small win for Pete. It felt good, really good.

The imaginary Patrick let out another moan as he began to touch himself. Pete knew exactly how Patrick looked like when aroused, so picturing him all flushed, cock in his hands, staring at Pete in lust and hunger, wasn’t too hard.

Pete added a second finger, knowing it would elicit another choked-back moan from his audience. He worked his fingers in and out of himself, gradually increasing speed. He briefly recalled that the actual Patrick had done that just earlier today. Those were some talented fingers, Pete had to admit, always finding his prostate with little trouble, stroking his cock with precise, perfect movements. _Fucking musicians_ , Pete thought to himself, _but hey, I guess Patrick can play more than just his stupid instruments_.

Pete didn’t care if his clients got him off or not. He wasn’t there for a lighthearted, fun fuck, he just did his job. But he appreciated anything that took him out of his head a little, and an orgasm sure always helped with that.

 

Whatever. He wouldn’t let Patrick win that easily. Patrick would be panting by this point, gasping for air, his dick blood red under his own hands. He was always so desperate, and Pete reveled in the attention it got him.

 _Don’t come before I do_ , he instructed Patrick in his mind. _Please, Patrick, I want you to appreciate how pretty I’ll look_! Pete would argue, and well, Patrick would roll his eyes, and comply, like the idiot that he was. He could pretend not to care for Pete’s words all he wanted, but he fell for the cheap hooker talk each and every time with almost laughable precision.

Pete moaned a little louder, thrust his fingers into himself a little harder, stroked his cock even faster. Ah, how Patrick would love this! He would never love _Pete_ , but at least he would love Pete’s pretty façade. That was better than nothing, the closest Pete would ever get to true emotions. Yes, yes, Patrick would love this so much, oh, he would be panting, biting back another moan, trying so hard not to come just like Pete told him. All pink blushes on pale skin, pinks lips caught between pearly white teeth, that talented mind all focused on Pete and Pete alone, those skilled hands longing to touch so badly –

Pete came, making sure to let out his little whimper just the way Patrick liked it, that sweet little noise he was so desperate to hear. Patrick wouldn’t have to hold back anymore, he too would come now, spilling over his hand and the sheets, _so dirty, Patrick! And what a good boy you’ve been! Ah, come here, please -?_

 

Pete reached his hand out – only to find nothing but thin air. Dumbfounded, he let his hands sink on the mattress, before the impact of reality hit him with full force: He was in his own bed, at his own place, alone. Patrick wasn’t really here, it had just been a figment of his imagination and – fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Pete jolted up, as a heavy feeling settled in a chest, clawing at his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Forgotten was any feeling of pleasure, and the afterglow vanished in an instant.

 

 _What the fuck have I been doing just now_ ? With rising panic, Pete looked at his fingers: Covered in cum from an orgasm he had while fantasizing about _a fucking client_ , trembling with fear from the knowledge of having done something really, really stupid. Something that was fucking wrong. Pete balled them into fists; he was used to doing all kind of wrong, fucked up things with his hand. Hurting himself, hurting other people, writing hurtful words and ruining everything they touched. His brain did a lot of fucked up things as well. But _this_ was something new, even for Pete. Something that shouldn’t have happened.

Patrick had done all the right things, everything Pete wanted his clients to do – pay without a fuss, wrap their dicks in a condom, fuck Pete out of his head for a while. Patrick had _said_ all the right things, too, everything Pete wanted to hear – _I want you, Pete, always;_ like a lovesick idiot. Pete knew he had convinced Patrick to do what he wanted him to – Patrick would come back to him, and _him_ alone.

 

 _Then why, why does it feel like everything is going so goddamn wrong_? Pete drew his knees to his chest, and buried his head in his arms. When had his brain given in to complete insanity, and paved the way to let some fucking _client_ mess with it that way? When had he lost control over the situation, over himself?

Hot, white anger mixed with the anxiety flaring in his chest. Anger about being this stupid, reckless, and vulnerable.

 

Anger about the disappointment he felt deep inside of him. Suddenly, the silence in his room weighed him down, the crushing knowledge that all he had was himself was choking him. The sadness about not only being alone, but lonely; how terrifying it had felt when he had reached out his hand, and no one had been there to take it. Worse, when Patrick hadn’t been there to take it.

Pete groaned. Why, why in God’s name did it have to be a client, did it have to be _Patrick_ that his messed-up mind craved so much?

 

All the tempting words flooded Pete’s mind, all the things he had wanted Patrick to say, suddenly wondering if his need to hear them was born out of a professional reason. _I want you, Pete, I always want you_ ; _because I care about you, Pete, please don’t leave me…_  

 

No, no. When did he start believing bullshit like that, since when did he want his clients to care about him any further than the pretty surface he sold them?

He couldn’t trust Patrick, no, no way he could trust some John.

 

Besides, what did Patrick want? He wanted a pretty body, a beautiful face, a tragic damsel in distress he could save. Not some dirty whore who was fucked up in the head, who was past the point of saving, _who deserves nothing but to be hurt_. Someone who couldn’t even really connect with another hooker, was powerless to keep the bad things away from a helpless little boy like Brendon.

If Patrick realized how pathetic Pete truly was… No way Patrick would like him anymore. If Pete couldn’t keep up his façade, if he failed to please him, Patrick surely wouldn’t come back to him, ever. It was best if Patrick kept his delusions, and was kept as far away from the real Pete as possible. No matter how tempted Pete was to try opening up to him – no, no. He would rather keep Patrick bound to him by lies than to lose him by telling the truth.

And Pete wanted to keep Patrick, he wanted him all to himself. He didn’t want other hookers toying around with him, raging jealousy overcoming him when he imagined someone younger, prettier, better than him taking his spot.

The mere suggestion Patrick had vaguely made – that there might be someone _normal_ who liked him – had left Pete furious. The thought that _someone else_ got to experience Patrick’s hands on their body, was gifted his smile, made Patrick happy in all the ways Pete knew he never could made him jealous. It filled him with dangerous regrets, and even more dangerous doubts about everything – his job, his attitude, even the little pills that had always been there for him with helpful chemicals and soothing side-effects.

 

 _Wrong_ , his brain screamed at him, _wrong, wrong, all of this is going wrong_. First, the whole fiasco with Brendon, now, the debacle with Patrick. Pete felt like he was slowly being torn apart, his heart aching in ways it hadn’t done for a long, long time, his brain turning against him, his body and mind betraying him.

Pete was shivering, the coldness spreading inside of him matching the coldness of his room. He forced himself to get up, and pick up the most comfortable looking clothes from the floor. His body felt numb, hands still shaking, heart pounding too fast in his chest. Pete grabbed his bag, going through its contents with increasing desperation.

 

Sleep, sleep, he needed sleep, he needed some benzos and three Valiums and he needed everything to stop for a while.

 

The familiar artificial taste lingered on Pete’s tongue after he had swallowed, but none of the familiar relief came. He crawled under the blankets, trying to forget everything, and hoping that the voices screaming in his head would soon fade away.

 

 

He could feel the edges of his consciousness starting to blur as reality was slowly blackening out. Pete fell asleep, already afraid to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you want to trick me into updating sooner, go leave a little comment and maybe reblog the art on tumblr! I'm a simple-minded person, every encouragement will get me to work harder, I promise. 
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr, I do more art there!
> 
> Ah, and if this fic ever manages to hit 100 Kudos, I promise to do some more elaborate artwork! ;)


	9. That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, my dear readers! Tons of angst ahead, as always. 
> 
> Thanks to the lovely Snitches for beta-reading!~

When Pete arrived at his usual corner, Brendon was already there. Lately, the boy had always been there already whenever Pete arrived, ignoring the advice he had been given. As always, Pete felt a pang of anger at the sight. Angry that someone else’s words had more of an impact on Brendon’s life, that once again, they failed him. He stayed silent, but reciprocated the smile that Brendon sent him.

“Good thing you’re here, Pete,” the boy said, “it’s so damn boring today, ugh.”

“Don’t expect me to entertain you,” Pete scowled. Brendon just stuck out his tongue, then let out a yawn, stretching his limbs while doing so. It caused his shirt to ride up, and for a few seconds, Pete could see bruises on Brendon’s stomach.

“Bad customer, huh?” Pete felt a hollow smile forming on his lips as he recalled his own last encounter with a bad John. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t a customer,” Brendon blurted out, before biting his lip.

 

It took Pete a moment to grasp the full meaning behind these words. If it hadn’t been a client who hit Brendon, there was only one other option. _That fucking bastard_. “Your shitty little lover. _He_ hit you,” Pete said through gritted teeth, as another sickening suspicion crept up in his mind. “This wasn’t the first time, right? Where else does he hit you?” Pete was surprised about his own boldness, but he simply couldn’t feign ignorance anymore, and he couldn’t ignore the burning fury coiling in his stomach at these thoughts.  

Brendon had stayed silent, neither answering nor denying anything. Oh no, Pete wasn’t going to accept that.

“ _Where_ , Brendon?”

Brendon lowered his head. “It depends. The stomach. Ribs. Upper thighs, sometimes. Parts I can easily hide with my clothes.” He looked away. “Parts that the customers will see when they fuck me. Somewhere where they’ll notice when they undress me. To let them know I’m not theirs. They can only buy me, but _he_ owns me. I belong to him.”

“You don’t belong to anyone, dumbass. And you don’t deserve to be treated like shit by some pathetic jerk.” Disgust flooded Pete, mixed with pure anger. He wondered how many other bruises the kid had – how many of them he hadn’t seen, and for how long he had been hiding those. For how long this asshole, this fucking bastard had been daring to hurt him like this, slowly tearing him down, fucking abusing the kid like that.

 

_All while I pretended not to care._

 

Shame and guilt settled in Pete’s stomach, a nauseating feeling. His own coldness and outright ignorance towards Brendon’s struggles didn’t seem like a clever survival tactic anymore. It didn’t feel like it had helped the kid in any way – _if anything, I only made it worse. As always_.

He balled his hands into fists.

“There has to be something I can do.”

“Oh, you want to help?” Brendon raised his brows. “Well, there’s something I want. Something I’ve wanted for a while now. Pain killers, benzos, sleeping pills… Little helpers, all the things you take. _You_ know where to get them,” Brendon said, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. The way that this fucking kid talked about getting drugs as if it was just another ordinary, unavoidable step in life was unsettling.

“You know where to get them,” Brendon repeated. “And I want some, too.”

“Are you crazy?” Pete spat out in disbelief. “I’m not going to tell some little brat where to get drugs.”

“I can get them anyway, y’know.” Brendon sent him a hollow smile. “I’m not stupid. I know my way around the streets. But it would be nice to find out who’s trustworthy from someone who has experience.” He lowered his head, looking at Pete through half-veiled eyes, and put his arms behind his back. A submissive gesture that Pete recognized as one of his own, and the sight of this kid mimicking it was sickening. “Please?”

Goddamn it, there even was the false sweet undertone in Brendon’s voice; the same one Pete reserved for customer interaction. Pete felt bile rising in his throat, as anger and anxiety settled in his chest. He swallowed, and took a deep breath, trying to make his words come out firm and determined. “You can spare me the act. I’m not one of your clients, and I’m not going to tell you where to buy drugs. What I will say though is: _stay the fuck away from it_.”

“Oh yeah? Like _you_ ?” Brendon hissed, dropping his docile facade. Pete flinched, as more anger and shame poured into his stomach. The same emotions he had felt when Patrick had so nonchalantly tried to dig into his secrets. What right did these people have to interfere with his life? How were his own fuck-ups any excuse for theirs? _Why, why can’t they just leave me alone?_

“Fuck off, kid. What I do with my own life is none of your business.”

Pete clutched his hands into fists, and pushed Patrick out of his mind. But he couldn’t ignore Brendon, and deep down, he could feel all kinds of doubts settling in him. He too was playing a part in the boy’s demise. First, his ignorance and pushing the kid away, and now this. _What kind of role model do I make for this impressionable idiot?_

Pete thought back to Brendon copying his words and gestures. Silly little tricks to convince strangers that he was worth the money they paid him for fucking. Sugarcoated lies, and an unpleasant reality coated in much more pleasant pharmacy.

 

 _No wonder the kid is fucked up if the only person he trusts is just a cheap, desperate whore_.

 

The worst thing was, Brendon was right: even if Pete refused to share his insights, it would be easy for him to find out where to go, what to take, what to pay, anyway.

All of the anger vanished, and Pete felt drained, devoid of any will to fight a battle he never felt he had a chance to win in the first place.

 

“I need these pills, Brendon. Because my head has always been fucked up, and that’s the only way to keep me sane. I’m just skipping the boring part of lying to some shrink to get to what I need. And I _need_ them. But little kids like you shouldn’t play around with drugs.”

“You sound like a hypocrite,” Brendon scoffed, and crossed his arms. “And I’m not getting into _drugs_. I’m not shooting heroin or whatever. I just need a little help once in a while. Like you.”

“I am not a hypocrite, asshole.” Pete shook his head, before he forced himself to look at the kid’s accusing eyes again. “Look, _you’re_ not a lunatic like me. _You_ don’t need pills. You need to get the fuck away from this street, and that man you’re living with.”

Brendon raised his brows in disbelief. “Yeah? And where do I go?”

“You can stay with me.” The words were out before Pete could over think them. Surprised with himself, he took a deep breath, as the consequences of these words settled in his brain. It was too late to take them back, and to Pete’s even greater surprise, he didn’t _want_ to.

No, he wanted Brendon to accept his offer. He _wanted_ this. He wanted to matter in someone’s life, be more than just a pretty face and a warm body. He wanted to have some influence in someone’s fate; not to mess with them, or play dumb little mind games. He wanted to _help_ , prevent this boy from being doomed to live a life too similar to his.

Brendon stayed silent, conflicting emotions distorting his face. He uncrossed his arms, and reached for Pete’s hand. For a moment, joy and relief sparked in Pete – maybe the kid would accept, _maybe I’m not as useless as I thought after all –_

 

“Let’s say I go with you – and then, what’s next?” Brendon finally said, the sadness in his voice hurting worse than any anger before. “We can both be _hookers_ on the street for the rest of our lives? Is that the future waiting for me? Thanks, but no. _He_ can give me something better.” Brendon shook his head, and let go of Pete’s hand. A harsher undertone crept into his voice, as if to convince himself of his own words. “He can give me something better, I’m sure. No, I _know_ it.”

Pete stayed silent, and made no attempt to fight this lie. He knew the boy wanted to believe this, _needed_ to believe this, and wouldn’t give up on it no matter what Pete had to say on the matter. It was the lie that kept the kid going, that made it possible for him to smile and bat his lashes and accept whatever his clients were doing with and to him. Because this was just temporary, and soon enough, there will be something better, right?

It was the lie that would lead to his demise, Pete knew. He had told himself a million varieties of it.

“I’m here for you, Brendon.” Pete grabbed the boy’s hand again, glad when he wasn’t met with resistance. It felt clumsy, but Pete didn’t know what else to offer for comfort. All his gestures had been reduced to meaningless lies to please someone else. _Just like my words. Like everything else about me, too._

Pete took a deep breath, before he continued. “And I won’t give up that easily. There must be something better for you. Better than being a hooker, better than me, and better than that fucking asshole you’re staying with.”

“Really, Pete?” There was a glimmer of hope in the boy’s eyes, soon lost in helplessness. “I want to believe you, I really do. But how? Do you know what to do?”

“I don’t know, Brendon,” Pete mumbled. “I don’t have the answers.”

He was determined to offer this kid his help, but Brendon was right. _What can I do to make these words more than one of the dozen other empty promises people have given this kid?_

 

Before Pete could dwell further on these thoughts, he registered the sound of a car approaching them. Reflexively, he let go of Brendon’s hand, and turned his head towards the direction the sound came from. His eyes widened when he recognized the vehicle in an instant.

_Of fucking course. As if this evening hasn’t been awful enough already._

It was _Patrick’s_ car, no doubt about it.

 

It had been a little longer than usual since he had last seen him, and of course, out of all the times Patrick could have shown up, it had to be now.

“Hey, I know that car. That one is for you.” Brendon nodded towards the car, then turned his head away as he crossed his arms in front of his chest again. “Go, Pete,” he whispered, bitterness tainting his words. “Time to be a good whore.”

For a moment, Pete considered staying. Patrick was his regular, and though they hadn’t seen each other in a while, he was sure that with a nice smile, a theatrical sigh, and some eyelash batting, maybe the hushed promise of a kiss to his cheek, Patrick could maybe be convinced to drive off and come again tomorrow.

But what use would that be? It would only prolong the inevitable. They weren’t here for amicable chatting, they were here to be picked up by clients, to exchange sex for money. He knew that Brendon couldn’t afford to blow off the next client either.

 

Pete spared one last look over to Brendon. The resignation etched on the boy’s features was like a punch in the stomach. Seeing the kid slowly giving up, seeing him become more and more like himself, was torturous.

Knowing that this was only the tip of the iceberg, and that there was so much more Brendon hid, it felt nauseating. There were more bruises on his body and even worse injuries left inside the kid’s mind, barricaded by someone else’s vicious lies and Brendon’s own desperate need to believe in something better.

Knowing that there was nothing he could do, that none of his words could change that was even worse. Not being able to protect this poor kid, shield Brendon from the harshness of a life Pete knew all too well, was infuriating.

Being so goddamn helpless hurt so much.

With a heavy sigh, Pete turned his head around, trying his best to plaster the usual smile on his face. As if this situation wasn’t draining him enough, now he had to deal with _Patrick_ of all clients. It would have been easier to deal with some jerk who just wanted a warm body. Pete knew how to deal with a dick shoved up his ass or down his throat; he didn’t know how to deal with all these fucking emotions Patrick kept shoving in his direction.

Something inside of him told him that he was not dealing with Patrick in the way he should.

Pete ignored that voice, and made his way over to the car.

_Time to be a good whore._

 

 

*

 

 

Patrick was excited.

He hadn’t seen Pete in a while. Work had kept him busy; and each time it hadn’t, the thought of Pete being somewhere out there ( _doing_ **_his_ ** _job – getting fucked by someone else_ , a vicious voice reminded him), possibly hurt and abused by strangers, left him sick to his stomach. But even aside from these terrible images, he simply missed Pete. He missed his smile, missed his banter, missed feeling his warmth under his hands. Patrick longed to hear more from Pete, wanted to dig up his other truths, as unpleasant as they might be. That tiny peek hadn’t been enough. There were so many questions left unanswered, there was so much more he didn’t know about Pete.

Patrick just wanted more. He just wanted Pete, more of Pete, always more of him.

This week, his schedule had cleared a little. Patrick was surprised at the strange relief he felt about that – he loved being at the studio, he lived for music, and usually, he did everything he could to busy himself as much as he could. He tried not to think about it. Today was just the perfect opportunity to spend a full night with Pete (though Patrick reluctantly recalled that the hooker wouldn’t stay too long in the morning).

 

Driving down the well-known street, he soon spotted Pete standing at his usual corner, together with the other boy. _Brendon_ , his mind reminded him, _Pete’s, well – friend?_ He still wasn’t sure about the nature of their relationship. _Do friends hold hands, though?_

Patrick furrowed his brows. He had seen them talk before, but today, judging from their body language and the agitated looks on their faces as they spoke, they seemed to be in some kind of argument. And he had never seen them holding hands. It didn’t look like a romantic gesture, yet Patrick couldn’t grasp the meaning behind it.

The whole situation felt like a private moment. Not something for Patrick’s eyes; not something for a _client’s_ eyes.

He hesitated, as he considered driving off again. But the hookers had already noticed him. He saw how Pete let go of the boy’s hand. Brendon crossed his arms, seemingly upset, before the anger in his face was replaced by a defeated look. Whatever parting words the boy said to Pete, they obviously upset him. The helpless expression on Pete’s face stood in stark contrast to his usual confident and cocky behavior.

Before Patrick fully realized what had happened, Pete had already come over, and was already leaning into the window, former worried expression replaced by his usual smile.

 

“Patrick! Good to see you,” he exclaimed, his voice sounding just the slightest bit off. “It’s been a while. I was almost afraid you forgot about me!”

“I, uh.” Patrick wasn’t sure if he was even supposed to acknowledge what he had just witnessed. “I didn’t want to interrupt you two. I can come back later -?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m fine.” Pete waved his hand dismissively. He lowered his voice, and his smile widened, but Patrick noticed how Pete’s hand was now balled into a fist. “Don’t leave. If you go now, someone else might take me away…”

 _No_. Patrick instinctively tightened his grip around the steering wheel. No, no way he would allow anyone else to take Pete today. “Come with me, then,” he blurted out, biting back a desperate _please_ (which became frightfully common these days).

“Ah, I’d love to come with you! I’ve missed you so much, Patrick…” The smile was now replaced with puppy dog eyes and a pout, a parody of the real sadness Patrick had just seen on his face. With each passing minute, Pete regained his confidence, and fell back into his usual role. “Have you missed me, too?”

 _Yes_. Yes, he had missed Pete, each and every minute that he couldn’t fill with work, music, or any other of his usual distractions. “Well, I’m here now,” Patrick finally answered, realizing just a little too late how obvious the implication behind these words were.  

“I’m so glad you came back to me, Patrick.” Pete leaned a little closer. “You won’t send me back to the cold street tonight, right? Leaving me behind all alone… Oh, that would break my heart! You won’t do that to me, right?”

“No,” Patrick blurted out. “No, I won’t.” He took a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure. “I told you, come with me. I want you to stay the night again.” _Tonight, and every other night, if that were possible_.  

“Good,” Pete cooed, and sent him a smile. “Ah, you’re so good to me, Patrick! Mmm, you make me so happy…”

Patrick didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for his wallet, and handed Pete the money. He was rewarded with another toothy grin. Like always, Patrick reached over to open the passenger door. Before he got into the car, Pete sent the boy one last look. They exchanged a glance that Patrick couldn’t interpret, but before he could dwell on it any longer, Pete sat down next to him. Patrick took one last look at Brendon, but the boy was already busy fiddling with a pack of cigarettes, and searching the pockets of his too tight pants for a lighter.

 

Nervousness overcame Patrick. Everything about this felt so off.  “Hey, Pete. Is your friend going to be okay?”

“What do you think the answer to that is, _Patrick?_ ” Pete scoffed, the emphasis on Patrick’s name a clear indication that he had stopped himself at last second not to use an insult instead. Patrick bit his lip, feeling like a scolded child. _Yeah, what kind of answer did I expect?_

“Just drive, please,” Pete said quietly, and looked away. During the drive, Pete kept staring out the window, lost in his thoughts, and the silence between them felt heavier than usual. Patrick kept quiet as well, and kept ignoring all new kinds of unsettling feelings that settled in his chest.

 

When they entered the apartment, Pete headed for the bathroom like always. Patrick took off his jacket, then his hat, before he hesitated. “Wait, Pete.” He fiddled with his hat in his hands as Pete turned around, brows furrowed. “Uh, do you want to eat something first?”

Pete shook his head. “I’m fine, thanks. Maybe later.” He blinked, then, the usual grin was back on his face. “The only thing I want to fill my mouth with right now is your cock…” He licked his lips, and Patrick looked away. “Meet me in the bedroom, then,” he said, and forced himself to put away his hat. Nervously toying around with it was an annoying habit he hated; it made him feel like a stupid insecure school boy.

“Not losing any time today, huh?” Pete remarked, that pesky grin still on his lips. “Got it. I’ll meet you there.” He turned around again, and shut the bathroom door behind him.

Patrick went over to the bedroom, and sat down on the mattress. He nervously drummed his fingers on his legs. His hands felt empty without the whiskey tumbler in them, and he hated being devoid of the usual liquid courage that came with it.

But he remembered Pete’s words from last time. They kept playing in the background whenever he had had another drink in the past weeks. He recalled faint anger that yet another pleasure had been ruined by this damn hooker’s mere existence; first, sex, and now, even having a simple drink had been tainted.

And yet here he was, without a drink in his hand. _I don’t need to agitate Pete any further_ , Patrick tried to reason with himself as he recalled Pete’s harsh words from last time. _And I don’t need a stupid lecture over nothing from him again_. That was a much more convenient and easier theory than the doubts lingering in the back of his head.

 

Shortly after, he heard the bathroom door open again, and soon enough Pete leaned against the doorframe, freshly showered and naked like always, condoms and lube already in his hands. It was just like every other time before, a simple part of their routine.

Then why did it feel so off today?

For the first time, the sight of Pete being all naked and ready wasn’t exciting, and for the first time, Patrick felt regret creeping up on him, similar to how he had felt last time. This was all just a silly game, played for his pleasure, for his egotistical amusement of seeing Pete naked, undone, and vulnerable. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Like a piece of meat.

He had wanted Pete exposed, smug attitude broken, _as if he wasn’t broken enough already_. Even right from the start, before they had even done anything sexual, Patrick had insisted on showing off his paid power over someone else. It felt so childish and disrespectful now.

Patrick looked away, as he felt shame rising inside of him.

 

Pete took the time to go over to the nightstand, where he discreetly placed the condoms and the lube. He looked at Patrick’s empty hands, then his eyes searched the nightstand again. “No alcohol today, huh?” He sighed. “Well, at least _you_ are listening to me.”

The unusual weariness in his voice went unnoticed – Patrick was too busy maintaining his stoic expression. “I think I can decide for myself if I want a drink or not,” he retorted as he stood up. He tried to push all of his conflicting thoughts aside for now.

“And you just happened to not want a drink today. Sure,” Pete said, smugness in his voice again. “But there’s something else you want, right?”

“You,” Patrick said, the words escaping his mouth before he had time to think. “I want you, Pete.”

He was rewarded with the usual obnoxious laugh, and for the first time today, the smile that lingered on Pete’s face afterwards reached his eyes. He came closer, and Patrick reached out for him to pull him into a hug. He forgot his former hesitations over Pete being naked. What mattered right now was that finally, _finally_ , Pete was in his arms again, safe for tonight, _and all mine_. He allowed himself to relish in the feeling of familiar warmth, the tan skin and dark ink in his eyesight, and Pete’s heartbeat in his ear for a little longer.

Then, he let go, and took a step back, as other thoughts wormed their way through the initial joy. The sickening images from last time crept up on him, and his eyes immediately wandered to Pete’s right collarbone. Patrick couldn’t help but run his hand over it as relief flooded him. Nothing of the injury was left. No more vicious red teeth marks, and the ugly colors of the hickeys had been replaced by the usual shade of brown skin and black ink.

“As good as new,” Pete remarked, and sent him a wink. “All pretty again, right?”

“You’re always pretty.” Patrick ran his finger over the hard outlines of the collarbone one more time, before placing his hands on Pete’s hip. “What’s more important is that this asshole didn’t hurt you again.”

Pete rolled his eyes. “I might make some bad decisions, but even _I_ wouldn’t have been stupid enough to get fooled a third time by the same client.”

 

More questions formed in Patrick’s mind. This client hadn’t hurt Pete again, but what if someone else had? There wasn’t any mark on his collarbone, but what about all the things Patrick couldn’t see, all the things that left something far worse on and in Pete?

Patrick didn’t have the answers yet. What he knew though was that he would keep Pete safe, at least for tonight. A wave of protectiveness rolled over Patrick, mixed with a different feeling. There was still the warmth of Pete’s skin under his fingertips, his body so close to Patrick’s, tempting as always. It was enough to cancel out the doubts for now, as arousal began to flood him. He had missed everything about Pete, including sex.

They had all night, and Patrick decided to keep the talking for later.

Instead, he used his mouth to plant all the little kisses he had missed so much to all the places he had longed to kiss so badly. The slight stubble on Pete’s face, his neck, his collarbones – both left and right this time, as Pete didn’t object today.

“Mmm, not wasting any time today, I see.” Pete let out a chuckle. “You really want me, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick mumbled against his skin. “Want you, Pete.” One last kiss, then he let go of him, and gestured towards the bed. “Would you -?”

Before he could finish the sentence, Pete had already laid down, limbs splayed out and taking up way more space than necessary. He sent Patrick a cocky gaze as he watched him undress, and a matching grin once Patrick joined him in bed.

“Oh, I missed you so much!” Pete said, and batted his eyes. “Please, show me how much you want me, Patrick!”

 

Patrick placed his hand on Pete’s hip, and hesitated. The small bruises on there were nothing like the injury from last time. Just the reminiscence of someone else’s hand digging just a little too hard into soft flesh, already fading away. It wasn’t even the first time he had seen bruises on Pete’s hips, and it wasn’t the first time that his imagination provided him with the sickening images of just how they ended up there. The thought that this was just a regular part of Pete’s life sent a shudder through Patrick.

“Not everyone can have such talented hands as you,” Pete interrupted his thoughts. “Not everyone knows how to control their fingers as well as you do, Patrick.” The words were playful, but the harsh undertone in his voice and the subtle way he brushed Patrick’s hand away were unmistakable signs that this topic wasn’t up for discussion right now.

There were more questions right on the tip of Patrick’s tongue. He swallowed them down, and instead, leaned forward to press another kiss to Pete’s face. _We have all night to talk_ , he reminded himself, _there will be better opportunities_.

For now, Pete seemed more pleased with being kissed, and Patrick wasn’t going to complain. He tried to recall all the other small things he knew Pete liked – a tongue tracing over his nipples, touching his inner thighs, and fueling his vanity by giving him compliments. No, there must be more. Patrick wanted to know it there was something else, something he hadn’t done before. “Tell me, Pete,” he inquired, “is there anything you want me to do?”

Pete seemed thrown off by the question. “Do whatever you want, Patrick,” he answered cautiously, before plastering a smile on his face. “Mmm, I’m happy with everything you’re willing to give to me…”

“I’m serious,” Patrick insisted, teasingly running his finger down the shaft of Pete’s dick. He was rewarded with a small moan, but no answer came. “I’m serious,” he repeated. “Tell me, please. I want to know what you like. What can I do to make you feel good? Give me a real answer.”

He gave Pete’s cock another stroke; it was still soft, but Patrick was determined to change that soon.

Pete looked away, brows furrowed, as if the question startled him. The insecurity lingered a little longer on his face, before he regained his composure. “Touch me,” he finally said, dropping his voice to a low, sultry tone. “Touch me, Patrick,” he repeated, “and I want your fingers inside of me, opening me up for your cock…”

It was what Patrick had wanted to hear. That was the problem – it was what _he_ wanted to hear, not what Pete really thought. With slight disappointment, Patrick had to admit that this was still an act Pete put on to please him.

Well, but it was a starting point. Maybe, he could gradually ease more answers out of Pete. Patrick reached for the lube, and poured it over his fingers. Then, he leaned forward, slicked-up fingers resting between Pete’s legs, and his lips back on Pete’s inviting skin. He slowly slipped a first, then a second digit inside of him, as he did everything else he could think of Pete might enjoy – touching his inner thighs, caressing his nipples, running his mouth and tongue over every other possible sensitive spot.

 

Pete moaned, he gasped, he pushed back harder against Patrick’s fingers. He did everything Patrick wanted to see, but there was something sterile in his movements, calculated, driven by desperation, not by arousal.

It was made even more evident by one look at Pete’s cock, half-limp at best and not really responding to whatever Patrick was doing. He put his hand on Pete’s hip, motioning him to stop moving. “Pete, tell me. Am I doing something wrong? Want me to do something different?”

“You’re doing fine,” Pete hissed. “I just – I just…” He averted his eyes, and turned his head away.

“Well, I must be doing something wrong, or you would…” Patrick trailed off, and gestured towards Pete’s crotch. “Anything else I can do?”

Pete opened his mouth, and Patrick knew there were a dozen well-practiced answers in Pete just waiting to be delivered. They remained unsaid. “’s not going to happen,” Pete muttered instead. “I’m sorry, I – I can’t right now.”

 

For a moment, there was nothing but heavy breathing and his own heavy heartbeat filling the deafening silence in Patrick’s head. He withdrew his hands from Pete, who sat up now, still avoiding Patrick’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I swear, it’s my fault. You did fine, it’s just me.” Pete brought his knees up to his chest, and slung his arms around them. It was the same defensive pose Patrick had seen him do last time (and quite a few times before, now that he thought back to it). It made him want to comfort Pete, pull him in a tight hug, give him a gentle kiss, tell him everything was okay, even though he knew that such behavior would only further Pete’s agitation.

“I’m sorry,” Pete repeated, which only made Patrick feel worse. He could hear the desperation in his voice, a hint of panic, a bit of fear, and he didn’t want to think about the reasons for any of these feelings. He didn’t know how to handle this situation. Pete’s desperation only furthered Patrick’s guilty conscience. He didn’t want Pete to apologize, asking for forgiveness that wasn’t needed, _that I should be begging for_.

Anger with himself overcame Patrick, mixed with the feeling he had failed. Pete opened his mouth, but Patrick couldn’t bear to hear another _sorry_ from him. “Stop apologizing, Pete,” he hissed, “you think this is going to make it any better?”

 

Patrick felt ashamed the moment the inappropriate words left his lips. They sounded all wrong, and even harsher than he had intended. Lashing out against the hooker was certainly the wrong thing to do.

“Wait,” Patrick held up his hand. “Forget what I just said. That was stupid, and I didn’t mean it. It came out all wrong… it’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

“Look, I’ve had a rough evening,” Pete admitted nervously, and turned his head away. “Or maybe,” he continued, scorn dripping into his words, “or maybe, I’m just too fucking broken.”

Every muscle in Pete’s body was tense, hands clutched into fists and jaw clenched. As if he still expected Patrick to lash out, to get angry, to hurt him; and that was what hurt Patrick the most – still being just another mindless, violent customer to Pete. Another interchangeable John, and as terrible as anyone else. A potential threat. _Someone not to be trusted_.

 

_And maybe, I’ll never be anything else, no matter how much I’d like to pretend. No matter how much I try, what reason does he have to trust me?_

 

Pete was still agitated, hands balled into fists, but when he raised his head, there was the false sweetness in his voice again, sugarcoating lies that Patrick no longer wanted to hear. “I could still give you a blowjob. My mouth works just fine. Or, you could just fuck me anyway, y’know. I can take it. We only need _your_ dick to fuck, not mine. Just go ahead and use me, Patrick. That’s what you paid me for, after all.”

Patrick shook his head. He thought back to his terrible experience with William, and the drugged-out eyes staring blankly into the distance. He thought back to his semi-drunken one-night stand with Gabe, when he had gritted his teeth and ignored his own discomfort, just to please someone else.

No, there was no way he’d hurt Pete like that for a cheap orgasm and his own egotistical pleasure.

The refusal only seemed to fuel Pete’s desperation, and only caused more anger in him. “Why not?!” He spat out, sweet words now traded for hostility. “Isn’t that what you want? A pretty, warm body? Aren’t I pleasing you? Aren’t I good enough for a quick fuck? Not good enough? _Not good enough,_ Patrick?”

All Patrick could do was shake his head again. He may have accepted the (desperate) blowjob last time, but it hadn’t exactly been a great experience that he wanted to repeat anytime soon. He didn’t know what to make of Pete’s words, and he didn’t know where all these contradicting emotions in Pete came from. “Look, Pete, it’s just – I’m not gonna hurt you,” Patrick finally blurted out.

“Yeah, I know you won’t,” Pete scoffed. “ _You_ won’t fucking hurt me, Patrick, but your words, and your fucking attitude, they –“ he stopped, and looked away. “Fuck, I wish you would stop with that. Why do you have to act like you care? It would be easier for both of us if you just shut up, and just put your dick inside me without all this bullshit.”

“I’m not doing that,” Patrick replied weakly. “Please, Pete, stop it.”

 

To his relief, no more objections came from Pete. Still, Patrick couldn’t shake off the feeling he had done something wrong. Had he failed to see a sign of discomfort? Had he unconsciously ignored something in Pete’s body language? Had he touched the wrong parts, were his hands not doing the right thing? _Maybe, I’m the one who isn’t good enough?_

A wave of insecurity washed over him, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask any of the questions plaguing his mind. He clutched his hands into fists, only to wince when he noticed there was still lube all over his fingers.

Pete sent him an annoyed look, as though he knew the inner turmoil that was going on in Patrick’s head, before speaking up.

 

“For the last time. It’s not your fault,” Pete scoffed. “What, you think my life revolves around you? Think you’re special, think you can throw me off my game? I can get it up for a client just fine. It’s not you. It’s…” He didn’t finish the sentence, and the anger was replaced by a different expression – one of helplessness, one Patrick recognized as the same he had seen on Pete earlier that day.

“Is it about the fight from earlier?” Patrick asked cautiously. Pete didn’t reply, but he didn’t object, either. “The fight you had with – with Brendon, right?”

“Dammit, Patrick, why are you always there to see me at my worst?” The words were accusing, but couldn’t cover the quiet sadness that seeped into Pete’s smile, and into his voice. He shook his head, and looked away. “It was more than just a fight.”

Patrick suspected there was a longer story behind this. One he was desperate to hear. But maybe, not while they were still naked and in bed, and while Pete was still so agitated.

With a sigh, Patrick stood up. “We have plenty of time to try again later,” he said when he was met with a questioning look from Pete. “Let’s go have a drink, something to eat, and clear our thoughts, okay? Go get dressed, and meet me in the kitchen.”

To his surprise, he was met with no resistance. Pete just quietly got out of bed, and made his way to the bathroom to retrieve his clothes. Patrick collected his own clothes that he had carelessly thrown to the floor just a few minutes ago, got dressed, and headed for the kitchen. Pete was nowhere to be seen. Patrick washed his hands, then leaned against the kitchen table, before he recoiled as the memories of his last time with Pete crept into his thoughts. _Goddammit_. Now was not the time to think about that. He leaned against the kitchen counter instead, again wishing he had some alcohol to ease his mind a little.

 

Thankfully, his thoughts were interrupted by Pete entering the kitchen. He too spared a look to the kitchen table, and sent Patrick a meaningful smirk. Patrick avoided his eyes, and couldn’t help but take a closer look at Pete’s clothes. Only now did he realize that again, Pete hadn’t been wearing a jacket. He’d been too distracted by the fight earlier to register that.

Come to think of it, Brendon hadn’t been wearing a jacket, either.

With a shudder, Patrick looked away, and absent-mindedly tugged at the sleeves of his own shirt. Even inside, it was a little too cold for just short sleeves.

 

“Hey, earth to Patrick.” When he looked up, Pete stood in front of him, slight annoyance in his expression. “Why the sad look? Disappointed that we didn’t get to fuck? I told you, if you want me, just take me. Do whatever you want. I could still suck your cock, or you could bend me over the table again, against the counter, or –“

“No,” Patrick interrupted him, irritated. “I already told you, I don’t want to do any of that.”

Pete stayed silent, and crossed his arms. There was something in his eyes, the fear of not being able to please his client, as well as something else that Patrick couldn’t figure out. Pete came closer, arms still crossed, but a small smile on his lips.

“Ah, you keep rejecting me. Oh, how that hurts my feelings! Don’t you want me, Patrick?” The usual false sweetness swung in his voice, but it couldn’t cover the hint of desperation behind the playful attitude.

“Of course I want you, Pete,” Patrick sighed. “But not like that. I’m not gonna force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Pete shrugged. “I’m pretty good at taking dick. You don’t need to keep worrying so fucking much. We could -”

“Please stop. Enough of that.” Patrick held up his hands, and sent Pete a stern look. There was another objection already tugging at Pete’s lips, but it went unsaid. Instead, he remained silent, and lowered his head. Not in the usual playful way, no; this time, he just looked sad.  

Although he expected Pete to ignore the gesture, Patrick shyly opened his arms for a hug. But Pete uncrossed his arms, and let himself get pulled into a hug. Patrick lay his head against Pete’s shoulder, and let out a small sigh.

“Please, Patrick, I’m sorry,” Pete mumbled quietly. “I can be good. I can be better, I promise. The best for you, everything you want.” It didn’t sound mocking or playful, just heavy-hearted and defeated. The words stung, hurt worse than every harsh remark Pete had ever thrown at him. Patrick didn’t have an answer. Or rather, all the answers he had would have been nothing Pete wanted to hear, he was sure or that. All the _I’m sorry_ and every _Please, Pete, it’s me who has to apologize, you deserve better_ dancing around in his mind, mixing together with all kinds of new, dangerous thoughts: _All I could wish for is to have you, Pete, you, and not the hooker_ , and ah, if only that were possible.

 

Instead, he pulled Pete even closer, hoping that the gesture came off as reassuring. Pete let out another sigh, but he cautiously reciprocated the hug, which Patrick took as a good sign. They stayed like that for a while, the silence between them almost feeling kind of comforting for once. Eventually, Patrick lifted his head and straightened his back as he tried to go for a smile. “Maybe it’s _you_ who should stop worrying all the time,” he said, trying to sound calm and collected. It got a small chuckle from Pete, who looked a little less agitated by now.

Patrick took a deep breath, and decided it was best to distract themselves. “Hey, Pete. Do you want to eat something?”

“Yeah,” Pete said with a small nod. “But there’s no need for any effort. I’m not that hungry. Just a sandwich is enough.”

Pete took a step back, giving Patrick the chance to go through his cupboard.

“What do you want?”

Pete perked up a little. “Do you have peanut butter?”

“I think so,” Patrick said as he looked for the desired object. “Yes, I do.”

“Want me to help?” Pete offered, but Patrick just shook his head. Pete sat down on the kitchen table, swinging his legs a little and sending his client a wink.

Patrick just shook his head. “We’re going to use the table for eating today.”

“Whatever you want, Patrick,” Pete hummed. He didn’t stop staring at Patrick, who was really glad that at least he couldn’t mess up something as easy as making a sandwich. Why was there the sudden need to impress Pete? Why did he suddenly care what a hooker thought of his household skills?

When he was done, Patrick waved his hand towards Pete, motioning him to sit down on a chair instead. Pete did, and Patrick placed the two plates on the table. “Want something to drink, too?”

Pete nodded, and Patrick went over to his fridge. He really, really wanted more than just soda, and he hated how wrong this desire suddenly seemed. What was wrong with having a little drink?

But Pete’s words from last time hung over him like a gloomy warning. _Careful, Patrick, one day, the exception will become the rule,_ and Patrick remembered all the pills Pete must be swallowing, imagined Pete standing in front of a bathroom mirror, telling himself _just one more. What’s wrong with needing a little help?_

With a quiet sigh, Patrick just grabbed a bottle of something definitely not alcoholic. Fuck, when had every aspect of his life become such a goddamn mess?

 

Sitting down again, Patrick decided he wouldn’t be a coward. “Hey, Pete. Want to talk about the fight with your friend?”

“No, I don’t.”

Pete’s sharp voice made it clear he wouldn’t answer any further questions. _If he wanted to open up, it would have to be on his terms_ , Patrick decided. He had made Pete the offer, but it was up to Pete to take it.

Silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken words and unvoiced thoughts.

 

Pete ate the first half of his sandwich, but seemed more interested in toying around with the other half. His fingers kept plucking it apart nervously, until Patrick decided it was no use, and put both of their plates away. Just as he wondered how to break the awkward tension and the deafening silence that still lingered in the room, Pete spoke up.

“He asked me for drugs.” Pete’s voice was quiet, almost inaudible. “The kid, he – he wanted to know where to get them. Wanted to know where I get my stuff from.”

Patrick turned around, surprised at the words. Pete was hunched over in his chair, fiddling with his hands in his lap.

“Drugs?” Patrick repeated, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out: “What – what the hell are you even taking, Pete?”

Pete shrugged, eyes still fixed on his hands in his lap. “Whatever I can get my hands on. Benzos, or Valium. Sleeping pills, sometimes. I’m not doing molly or anything, I just take what I need to keep me sane.” A short, vicious laugh fell from his lips. “I can ask my clients to wear a condom, I can stop my body from getting sick. But my head is all fucked up, no matter what I do.”

Deep down, Patrick could see some of the lies he had told himself about alcohol. He may not have been anywhere near the level of dependency that Pete was, but he had been dangerously close to an addiction himself to see through the act. And he had heard enough of Pete’s lies to know when he wasn’t being honest.

“It can’t be healthy,” Patrick said slowly. “Look, I don’t know what’s wrong with your head, but whatever you need should come from, I don’t know, a therapist or someone like that. Not – not from whoever you get whatever weird shit you take.”

“Oh yeah?” Pete said scornfully. “And how am I supposed to afford the therapist, Patrick? You seem to forget who I am – _what_ I am. A hooker from the corner of a street that good civilians tend to avoid. An illegal whore. Someone outside the system. Are you really that fucking stupid, or do you just want to pretend everything is like you want it to be?”

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m not buying your bullshit lies about _needing_ drugs,” Patrick hissed, clenching his hands into fists. “For someone who acted all high and mighty last time, you sure like to pretend when it comes to your own addiction.”

The effects of his accusations were obvious. Pete stared at him with pure anger, every muscle in his body tense, hands now clenched into fists as well. For a moment, it looked like he was about to throw all precautions overboard, and just hit his client as hard as he could, lash out no matter what consequences there might be. Patrick instinctively took a small step back, bracing himself for the impact of a fist somewhere on his body.

 

None came. Slowly, Pete exhaled, and relaxed his body again.

“Well, do _you_ know what to do, Patrick?” Pete asked with bitterness shining through his words. “ _You_ don’t have any answers either, do you?”

“Stop being a hooker, Pete,” Patrick said quietly, and he hated how he had nothing but cliched phrases and unhelpful answers to offer.

“Why don’t you keep that fucking unsolicited advice to yourself, Patrick?” Pete interrupted him impatiently, with the anger back in his voice. “Just _stop_ , hm? Wow, I’m glad you solved every underprivileged person’s problems in one sentence there. What the fuck do you know about my struggles? Do you know what it’s like to live in poverty? Have you tried finding a job with just a high school diploma and nothing else but tons of mental health problems and a criminal record? Has your sick brain ever screwed your life over?”

Patrick furrowed his brows. “You have a criminal record?”

“Well, nothing _bad_ ,” Pete huffed. “But, y’know, cops really don’t like seeing drugs in someone’s possession. Especially if that someone doesn’t have the right shade of whiteness to their skin.”

A hollow grin appeared on his face. “Luckily, I now know that no matter what skin color, most of them will accept a blowjob to keep their mouth shut. At least the ones who occasionally patrol on my little street corner.”

“That’s terrible,” Patrick mumbled, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. His own path to success hadn’t been easy, no, but he couldn’t deny the luck he’d had, and the advantages that got him there. _He_ had an education, _he_ had always managed to somehow quieten the mess in his own head so far, and no cop had ever pulled _him_ over no matter how many times he had come out of a suspicious alleyway with an illegal prostitute sitting next to him in his car.

 

“I did a lot of stupid things,” Pete said with a sigh. He looked away, with unusual shame and guilt tainting his expression. “My dad is a lawyer, and having his son constantly in trouble really didn’t reflect too well on him. When I was caught, he was the one who stopped me from getting sent to jail. But my parents paid the fine,” he said quietly. “My family isn’t poor, but it was still a lot of money. They told me it would be the last time they’d stand up for my mistakes. Told me I would be welcomed back when I learnt my lesson, and stopped being such a fuck-up.” Pete let out a scoff, and looked away. “Guess it doesn’t come as a surprise that I haven’t talked to them since. Well, it’s better that way for them.”

Patrick wanted to object, but all he had was horrified silence. Before he could find the right words, Pete spoke up again.

“I wasn’t always… You know. I had other plans. I went to college, and dreamt of being the next big fucking rock star.” Pete scoffed, and crossed his arms. “Lost my scholarship because of the whole drugs incident. I didn’t bother with college after that anymore, I thought that I would just become a musician, or find the next awesome hardcore band, or do… _Anything_. Well, as you can see,” Pete concluded with venom in his voice, “as you can see, that _anything_ turned out to be a full-time hooker. Isn't life funny?”

The anger was gone from his eyes; instead, an almost apologetic smile was on his face. “Sorry for lashing out at you. It’s not your fault my life is fucked up. I’m kinda glad everything worked out for _you_ , at least.” Pete shrugged as he turned his head towards Patrick again. “You’re a talented guy, Patrick. It’s nice to see that sometimes, the world rewards that, and that there’s people in the industry who deserve to be there. You have every right for success.”

“Thanks,” Patrick whispered, feeling pathetic. He struggled to find more words, wanted to give an appropriate answer to everything Pete had just told him, but he needed some time to take in all the new information. Each further piece of the truth revealed was like a punch to the stomach, and it was overwhelming.  

Pete let out a small chuckle. “Ah, and if I wasn’t a hooker, I would never be able to see you again, Patrick! Wouldn’t that be sad?”

Patrick said nothing. How was he supposed to answer? That he would love to have Pete outside of the narrow confines of paid sex, how badly he longed for Pete to be safe and away from the streets, shielded from everything bad in Patrick's own arms?

No, he was sure that wasn’t something Pete wanted him to say. The hooker had enough troubles already, and he didn’t need his client to burden him with even more problems.

 

Pete stood up, and went over to Patrick, thoughtful expression now replaced by the usual small semi-smile.

“Wouldn’t it be sad not to have this anymore…?” This time, it was Pete who initiated a hug, one that quickly turned from comforting gesture to something else. Patrick felt Pete’s left hand under his shirt, roaming over naked skin, felt his right hand wandering in between his legs. Pete kept his hand on Patrick’s crotch, testing, teasing.

“Forget all those sad, silly little stories,” Pete whispered sweetly. “That’s not what I’m here for. I’m here for something else, right? I’m supposed to make you feel better, right? To let you be happy for a while…” Patrick wanted to give an answer, but he was cut off by Pete’s tongue licking a stripe over his throat, before Pete’s hot breath ghosted over his ear. “Mmm, I could be doing so much more with my tongue, Patrick…”

Pete’s hands on Patrick’s body, the wet trail his tongue had left on his skin, the tempting words whispered oh so softly into his ear… Patrick’s objections faded away slowly the more he felt his erection pressing against the restraints of his pants, desperate for Pete’s promises, wanting, wanting, wanting. Pete wasn’t here for sadness, and if he didn’t want to talk anymore, what could Patrick do?

 

He couldn’t force Pete to open up any further, but he could accept everything else Pete was promising him.

“Bedroom?” Pete suggested with a coquettish bat of his lashes, the badly feigned innocence destroyed by the knowing grin and the skillful hands still stroking Patrick through his pants.

“Bedroom,” Patrick confirmed, already a little breathless, already longing for more.

The sheets were still messy from their first unsuccessful attempt, which Patrick tried not to think about right now. Pete was out of his clothes in no time. He sat on the bed, impatiently bouncing his leg while he waited for Patrick to undress as well.

Once he was naked, Patrick joined Pete on the bed, and was motioned to lay down. He did, his actions rewarded with a big grin, before Pete reached over and grabbed one of the condoms.

“Want me to make you feel good again?” Pete asked playfully, giving Patrick’s cock another stroke. “Ah, I promise, my mouth can deliver more than silly little stories – how about something more pleasurable?”

“Yeah,” Patrick replied as he tried to focus on the hand wrapped around his dick, and not any of the doubts lingering at the back of his minds. “Yes, Pete, go ahead.”

“I’ll be so good!” Pete sent him a wink, before rolling the condom over Patrick’s erection. “The best for you, Patrick!”

Now, those were sweet and tempting words, much easier to swallow than talks about the sad past, much easier to stomach than the thought of Pete’s fellow hooker being dragged into a miserable life of addiction. Then why weren’t Pete’s pretty, polished phrases bringing any comfort to Patrick?

 

Pete licked a stripe over Patrick’s cock, tongue swirling around its head, teasing a bit more than usual now that there was no invisible clock in the background, reminding him he had to go back to the streets again. It didn’t have the urgency or desperation of last time behind it. Patrick gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, and tried to enjoy the slow pace. Pete’s hot mouth on his cock, Pete’s hand on his thighs… His _dick_ was certainly enjoying it, but Patrick’s mind wasn’t quite catching up with the physical pleasure.

What was wrong with him? He had wanted, wanted, _wanted_ Pete so badly, everything of Pete, including sex. Now that Pete was so willing to give that to him, there shouldn’t be all of these objections. After all, he’d bought a hooker, he had paid for sex, had known perfectly well before Pete had even entered his apartment that they would eventually end up naked in his bed.

Pete’s mouth left his cock, and Patrick could feel Pete move. Patrick opened his eyes, about to inquire what Pete was doing, only to be greeted by a dirty grin, and Pete’s own hard dick pressing against his thigh.

“Come on, Patrick,” Pete grinned, “do you want to fuck me?”

As if to underline his words, he pressed closer, his erection grinding against Patrick’s thigh.

Pete had given him blowjobs before, usually while naked; and Patrick couldn’t remember a single time it gave Pete an erection, too. It had been about Patrick’s pleasure alone. The hooker’s arousal, absent or not, hadn’t been the focus.

 

 _He got it up for his client_ , a cynical voice in his head chimed in. _It’s part of the act. It’s what he is here for, after all._

Maybe this was just a bonus, to make up for his previous failure.

“Ah, Patrick, please… I’m getting so desperate here! Blowing you is fun, but your cock in my mouth just isn’t enough…” As if to underline his words, Pete grinded closer again, and gave Patrick’s dick another stroke. Fuck, he looked too tempting, and Patrick was too aroused to be able to resist the offer. He sat up, and put a hand on Pete’s chest, urging him to lay down. Pale fingers splayed over tan skin, hazel eyes looking at him expectantly, and pretty lips offering him their brightest smile – it was like every other time, the usual routine.

“Before you fuck me, I’ll have to change the condom,” Pete whispered, which seemed a bit over cautious to Patrick. But if those were the rules, fine.

Lube and condoms were still sitting on the nightstand, and Patrick impatiently reached for both. He handed the condom to Pete, with just the slightest hesitation – he couldn’t deny that Pete not even trusting him to put on a condom was kind of disappointing. As if the condom itself wasn’t a barrier enough.

Whatever. Why did that suddenly matter? It didn’t, and it shouldn’t. He had never been bothered about it before, and _Pete_ was the hooker, so of course _he_ was the one responsible for putting protection over his client’s cocks.

 

Patrick recalled his plan from earlier, and setting the lube aside for now, he decided he wanted to explore Pete’s skin with his tongue, he wanted to trace over every inch of it with his own hands. It was something he had been dreaming about for days (weeks, _months_ , if he had to be honest), just to touch, lick, kiss every part of Pete’s body, all while Pete was moaning and squirming and begging for more.

That was exactly what the hooker did – Patrick heard him moan, heard him say all the variations of _“please, Patrick, more!”_ he had wanted to hear. Why did it sound all wrong suddenly? Why wasn’t there the usual sense of satisfaction numbing out all of the doubts and worries in Patrick’s head?

It wasn’t like their failed attempt earlier. This time, Pete’s cock was hard, his arousal obvious, some of his gasps surely involuntarily. There was lust behind his words, _because that’s the emotion I’m paying him to have_.

What did it matter that just a few minutes ago, Pete had been nothing but sadness? Pete himself didn’t want to acknowledge it any further, what harm could there be in pretending? After all, Patrick had done that so well every other time before.

 

Irritated that his mind didn’t catch up with their usual routine, and didn’t provide him with the usual distance to Pete’s profession, Patrick sat back up again. He reached for the lube, coating his fingers with the slick liquid.

“Ah, yes, please!” he heard Pete say, “c’mon, Patrick, get me ready for your cock…!”

A first, a second, and a third finger were slipped into Pete, accompanied by more moans, Pete’s hands twisting into the sheets, Patrick’s cock twitching at the wonderful display of wantonness and sin. He had made sure to let Pete adjust properly, Pete’s own cock was still hard, and he was so tight when he clenched down around Patrick’s fingers, so beautiful with the blush on his face, so stunning when he was whimpering and whispering, demanding more.

It was all exactly what he had paid for. It was exactly what Pete was here for, to make Patrick feel good, entertain him for a few hours, surrender his body and his arousal to his client. Patrick knew, he had always known this was just an act. Then why did he feel so disappointed today? Why couldn’t he just see past it, just like every time before? Why couldn’t he forget, why couldn’t he forgive himself?

Pete was selling his lies so well, _why can’t I just enjoy it?_ The hooker was giving him his everything, _why do I still want more?_

 

He half-heartedly hoped that maybe, his cock would catch up with his mind, go soft, prevent him from going on. There had been so much sadness that even Pete had partially lost control over himself earlier, maybe Patrick’s dick would do the same.  

It did no such thing.

Patrick withdrew his fingers, and a small part of him continued to scream and beg for him to stop. But the bigger part of him just saw Pete’s face, so pretty and looking at him so wantonly, Pete’s cock, dark red and leaking, Pete, Pete, _Pete_ , and Patrick wanted to take what little he could get of him.

“Condom,” Pete said sweetly, and Patrick just nodded. The old rubber was removed, then a new one rolled over him with one swift move. Pete kept his hand on Patrick’s dick, sending him a coquettish wink. “How do you want me, Patrick?”

Right, that was what they were there for – to do what Patrick wanted to do, and suddenly, Patrick didn’t know what that was anymore.

 

He couldn’t bear to look at Pete’s face right now. The professional smile, the calculated way he had lowered his head, seemingly submissive and willing to sell whatever image Patrick wanted to buy – it was nothing but a stale surrogate of what Patrick really longed for, and the discrepancy between these two things felt off-putting.

“Turn around,” Patrick mumbled as he reached for the lube again to slick up his cock.

“Mmm, want to fuck me like last time, Patrick?” Pete batted his lashes. “We could –“

“No,” Patrick interrupted him. “Just… Get on your hands and knees.”

For a fraction of a second, Pete looked irritated, as if he wanted to object. He didn’t, of course, _because he’s here to please me, and me alone_. Hadn’t that once been such a glorious feeling, didn’t that always leave Patrick with such satisfaction? Wasn’t it so pleasing to see Pete so obedient, wasn’t he still so tempting in this position, ass up, fingered open for Patrick’s cock, ready to do whatever Patrick wanted him to do?

A cold feeling settled in Patrick’s chest as he pushed his cock into Pete, desperately sunk his fingers into Pete’s warm skin. Pete felt so fucking good, hot and tight around him like always, soft warm skin with the two dimples perfectly sized for Patrick to dig his thumbs into, what else could Patrick ask for?

He could feel Pete shift as he tried to adjust, and heard him panting a little. Patrick didn’t move, lust and arousal and the slightest hint of panic and disenchantment pulsing through his veins.

“Fucking move, Patrick, oh please, do something!” Pete groaned after a moment. “Don’t leave me so desperate! Or do you want me to –“

“I want you to shut up,” Patrick interrupted him harshly. He had heard all these lies before, and usually, they sent a shiver down his spine, made him want to hear more. It just seemed desperate now, but for all the wrong reasons. They made him feel like a fool, like a complete idiot for wanting to believe them, for ignoring the obvious.

Patrick snapped his hips, thrusting harder into Pete. It was rewarded with another moan as Pete arched his back, pushed back against his cock, did all the things Patrick had wanted him to.

 

With his pretty body so shamelessly on display, the hooker made for the picture-perfect image of desperation and lust, and he stayed silent now aside from little moans and grunts just like Patrick had told him to do. It was beautiful, it was perfect, it was everything Patrick had dreamt of. Then why did it feel more and more like a nightmare?

How could this masqueraded hooker version of Pete ever be a substitute for the real Pete underneath?

It couldn’t, and it never would.

 

“Patrick, please,” Pete was panting, words torn up each time Patrick’s hips met his own in another hard thrust. “Fuck, Patrick, I – oh, I’ve been so good, haven’t I? Please – fuck, will you let me come?”

Ah, yes, Patrick wanted him to come, yes, wasn’t that always so satisfying? Didn’t that let both of them forget about the nature of their arrangement even if just for a few seconds? Patrick loved the little whimper from the back of Pete’s throat, loved to feel Pete lose control of his body for a few moments, and when Pete came, it felt like an absolution for everything Patrick did to him.

“Come on, Patrick, I –“

“Enough,” Patrick interrupted him, anger seeping into his voice. Everything was right, just as it should be, so why was he feeling so horribly, horribly wrong? Those were the words he had made Pete say every other time before, why did they make him feel so sick today? “Go ahead, touch yourself if you want to come,” Patrick said through gritted teeth. He hardened his grip around Pete’s hips. It was tempting to lean forward, reach for Pete’s cock, let him come from Patrick’s touch.

But whatever excuses Patrick’s brain always had provided him for doing so – _he’s getting off on it, too, it can’t be that bad, go on, show him you can make him enjoy it! Make him forget he’s a hooker, give him a good time, do what those other Johns would never do! He’s yours and yours alone right now, you should be the only one he remembers!_ – No, none of those sounded convincing anymore. It sounded just as bad as Pete’s lies.

“Aren’t you going to… Lend me a hand?” Pete asked in a ragged voice, surely with that smug grin on his face. “You’re so talented with –“

The sentence was interrupted by a hard thrust from Patrick, causing Pete to let out a groan instead. Before he could speak up again, Patrick leaned forward, hands still clutched into Pete’s hips.

“Just… Just shut up, and come already,” Patrick spat out, anger burning in his chest and tears stinging in his eyes.

“How _mean_ , Patrick!” he heard Pete say in a pouting voice. He did as he was told anyway, reached for his cock and started to stroke himself at a pace that matched Patrick’s.

It didn’t take long until Pete came, tightening around Patrick’s cock as a syrupy voice and sweet moans filled Patrick’s ears, that delicious little whimper accompanied by all the other sounds Patrick always loved so much. Now, Patrick hated it, he hated that this intimate moment had to be shared with others, he hated that Pete had given this play to countless other clients before, he hated that no matter what he did, he couldn’t keep that sound all to himself.

 

Patrick fucked harder into Pete, all sense of rhythm lost. Finesse or enjoyment wasn’t the goal anymore, Patrick just wanted to get this over with. It didn’t take long until he came, a pathetic grunt spilling from his mouth as he thrust into Pete one last time.

 

The afterglow didn’t last too long. Patrick just felt numb after he pulled out, barely registered how Pete had turned around, removed the condom from his cock, and climbed out of the bed.

 

There wasn’t any anger left. Just sadness, manifesting in the traitorous tears that Patrick couldn’t hold back this time. He felt disappointed and disgusted with himself, for how he had treated Pete today and every other time before, for everything that had happened between them. Patrick let out a quiet sob as he drew his knees to his chest and buried his head in his arms, mirroring Pete’s usual position. It didn’t even bother him that Pete would be back any second, there to witness this moment of pathetic weakness. What did it matter anymore?

After a few moments, Patrick could hear footsteps, and soon after, he felt the bed dip as Pete sat down next to him. “Patrick,” he could hear Pete say quietly, with concern in his voice. “Hey. Are you alright?”

“Am I alright? Oh, and I thought _I_ was the one to ask stupid questions.” Patrick wiped over his eyes, anger and embarrassment flooding him. He knew there must have been ugly blotches of red on his face, tears and snot on his arms, and everything, _everything_ was just a mess.

“Well, forgive me for giving a fuck, Patrick,” Pete hissed, and crossed his arms. “Won’t happen again.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” More embarrassment crept up on Patrick. Again, he had lashed out at Pete even though it was himself he was angry with. Pete hadn’t done anything wrong. It was Patrick who kept making all these mistakes. Pete had enough problems already, he didn’t need to be bothered by some stupid, foolish John who had started to feel too many and all the wrong kinds of emotions.

Pete let out a sigh. “Why are you crying?” He asked softly, self-doubt and sadness in his voice. “Did I do something wrong? Wasn’t I good enough? Have I disappointed you? Please, Patrick, whatever it is, I’ll do it better next time, I promise!”

Patrick just shook his head. Pete had done a wonderful job, a brilliant performance, everything he was supposed to do, and that was exactly the problem. He hadn’t done anything wrong, on the contrary – Patrick couldn’t blame him for anything. No, it was Patrick who did everything wrong, who forgot who he was, what they were. A hooker and a client, and nothing more, ever.

“Why can I never make you happy, Patrick? Why, _why_ am I not good enough?” Pete’s words sounded less like an accusation towards Patrick and more like a question to himself.

“You were wonderful,” Patrick mumbled, and wiped over his eyes again before looking at Pete. “You did nothing wrong, Pete. I’m – _I’m_ the one who keeps messing up. _I’m_ the one who can never make you happy.” He bit his lip, trying to hold back more tears. The grim reality of his words manifested in a heavy feeling in his chest. Sure, he could force Pete to spill out a little bit of truth about his real self. He could make Pete moan and squirm under his hands and lips, could make him come, give him some blissful seconds of pleasure.

 

But what was all that worth?

 

Nothing, as long as Patrick couldn’t have everything else.

 

“I’m done for today,” Patrick said quietly. “Let’s – let’s just go to sleep.”

Pete looked away, and shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

Patrick stood up, and went over to his wardrobe. He hesitated, then turned to Pete. “Hey, uhm. Do you want me to lend you some clothes for the night…?”

Pete just shook his head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

That was a bit disappointing, but Patrick didn’t press the issue. He suspected that in the end, Pete might not sleep at all anyway. Patrick threw on the next-best semi-decent looking pajamas, and crawled back under the sheets. Pete had put his shirt and underwear back on, and sat cross-legged on the bed. Patrick bit back a comment about clothes and the coldness of the night. “Just get under the sheets, Pete,” he said with a sigh, “you know I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

With a small chuckle, Pete followed the request. “Such a gentleman,” he said with a grin. “So, you’re serious? We’re just gonna spend half the night sleeping again? So young, and so little stamina,” Pete tried to joke, but Patrick didn’t feel like laughing.

A moment of silence lingered between them, before Pete came closer, and rolled over to his stomach, head turned to his client. Patrick sent him a surprised look, which Pete countered with his usual smug grin. “Well, you said you wouldn’t do anything to make me _un_ comfortable,” he said, and batted his lashes. “Then how about doing something to make me even _more_ comfortable? Spoil me a little, Patrick…”

After a moment of hesitation, Patrick cautiously stretched out his arm, and gently placed his hand on Pete’s head. Patrick hoped he had read the signs right, but judging from Pete’s satisfied grin and the way he leaned into the touch, he had. He let his fingers run through Pete’s hair, just the way he remembered from last time. And just like last time, Pete closed his eyes, giving an appreciative hum from time to time.

It felt good to touch Pete like that, outside of any sexual context. To give him something comforting, for once. Pete seemed to enjoy it as well, and suddenly, Patrick wondered how alone Pete truly must be. Sure, there were dozens of men who bought the hooker, dozens of hands stroking and touching him everywhere each and every night. But that fake affection couldn’t replace real intimacy, that much Patrick had realized. He recalled how Pete had mentioned that he hadn’t contacted his family for who knows how long, how troubled his friendship with the other hooker was, and that right now, he was seeking comfort by the hand of a client, likely because there was no one else willing to give that to him.

 

 _No safe place to go_ , Patrick remembered him saying last time, _no place to go at all_.

 

Patrick couldn’t deny that he didn’t make for a much less pathetic sight. After all, he was the one who bought Pete. He was the one who developed all these feelings for a goddamn hooker. And he too couldn’t deny the loneliness that had seeped into his life. He had moved here for this job, all hopes and dreams and aspirations, but leaving friends and family behind had been harder than anticipated. And sure, Patrick was good at his job, yet he also knew that no matter how many hits he produced, no matter what glorious reviews the albums he worked on got, he would never quite fit in with the glamorous high society or the cold business side of the industry.

Everything in him just wanted to pull Pete even closer, into a tight embrace, limbs entangled and with no more distance between them. To make the loneliness stop, to give him something more than just bought affections on bought time, to show Pete there was a safe place for him to go, _right here in my arms, no matter what it takes_ . One day, hopefully, maybe, in a distant dream land, Pete would be comfortable with that – no, would be _happy_ to let Patrick do that. There would be a lighthearted laugh, and some harmless teasing from Pete as he leaned into the hug, no worries, no doubts, and no bad memories of someone else’s hand disturbing this moment. If only, ah, if only…

An involuntary sigh escaped Patrick’s lips, which caused Pete to open his eyes and slightly shake his head. “I’m sorry. All I did today is say sad things and ruin the mood over and over again.” Pete hesitated, then smiled a little. “Let me give you something that might cheer you up a little instead.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, and before Patrick knew it, a small, chaste kiss was pressed to his lips.

“A little goodnight kiss,” Pete stated when he saw the surprise in Patrick’s face. “To let you fall asleep, and have sweet dreams, or whatever.” He gave Patrick a wink, and for the first time today, Patrick felt an honest smile lighting up his face.

“See, now that is much better!” Pete grinned, and lay down again, on his side this time. “How do you want to wake up tomorrow?”

Patrick concealed a yawn behind his hand. “I don’t need anything special. Just be there when I wake up, okay?”

“So _modest_ ,” Pete remarked with a theatrical sigh. “Well, if that’s what you want, fine.”

Patrick nodded, and closed his eyes. He still wasn’t sure if Pete was going to sleep. But Patrick himself sure felt tired, and sleep became more tempting each passing second here in his warm, comfortable bed, with Pete in it. He could hear how Pete let out a small chuckle before saying: “Good night, Patrick.”

“Good night, Pete.”

There was still a distance between them, painful inches of nothingness, but Pete didn’t object when Patrick shyly put his hand on his hip. It was a first step, and definitely more than Pete had allowed him last time.

 

Patrick tried to be content with that. He tried not to think about the ever-present doubts, and tried to ignore that something in him broke tonight. Deep down, he knew he could never go back to enjoying the hooker like he did before. That part of him was lost forever, and Patrick wasn’t sure what would come next. He didn’t know how their relationship – or, well, lack thereof – would progress, and what these changes would mean for the both of them. The inevitable end came closer and closer, and Patrick was terrified to think of what came after that. He didn’t want to lose Pete, but he also knew he couldn’t continue this for much longer.

 

He wanted Pete, only Pete, not just the hooker, and it was all or nothing. And Patrick couldn’t help but think that _nothing_ was exactly what he would end up with.

 

He tried to push these scary thoughts aside. For now, Pete was here with him, safe in his bed, protected from the outside world for tonight. Warm and cozy under the sheets, soft skin under Patrick’s hand, a gentle smile that belonged to him and him alone.

Yes, for the present, that had to be enough.

 

For the future – that was something Patrick would deal with later.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please consider leaving a little comment, it's what keeps me motivated!
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr, I do more art there!
> 
> Ah, and I haven't forgotten - if this fic manages to hit 100 Kudos, I promise to do some more elaborate artwork! We're so close, and I know you want it. That Kudos button is right there, and so tempting, and free to press, mmm... ;)


	10. Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidays are over, it's time for ANGST.  
> Look who is finally updating omg. I swear I had this ready earlier but I promised art and that took me a while and I'm also a mess. Next chapter won't take a month again!
> 
> Oooooh and also, it's my anniversary of being a bandom author today! One year of writing Peterick fanfics... So see this art+update as my way to celebrate this. May the next year bring tons of Peterick fics, too!
> 
> Thanks to snitches for being a patient Beta reader and for putting up with all my angst and everything! It is so much appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

When Patrick woke up, the last hint of a silly dream lingered behind his eyes, and his still half-asleep brain longed to drift back to sleep. It was cold, and remembering that today, there was another warm body in his bed, Patrick instinctively reached out his hand – only to find nothing but empty sheets.

Suddenly a lot less interested in going back to sleep, Patrick opened his eyes. It took a few seconds to adjust to the gloomy light – _morning_ , Patrick realized. It wasn’t nighttime anymore. The first pale rays of sunlight fell through the curtains, revealing nothing but an empty bed.

Panic flooded Patrick, and all thoughts of sleep were forgotten. Pete, Pete, where was Pete? Was he gone? Had he abandoned Patrick whilst he slept? Did he vanish out of Patrick’s life forever, fed up and tired of him?

With these thoughts running through his mind, Patrick stumbled out of bed. He felt numb, limbs still stiff from sleep, but Pete, _what about Pete, Pete_ –

He looked around, but the bedroom was empty. Without much thought, Patrick stumbled towards the living room, his throat tight with anxiety and desperation.

After a few moments of sickening panic, his searching gaze finally fell upon the familiar shape of the missing hooker. Pete sat on the floor, legs crossed, and with a pair of headphones on. He had his eyes closed, and Patrick realized he was listening to music.

Relief flooded Patrick, almost made him want to cry. Ah, Pete was still there, _Pete hasn’t left me, Pete, Pete -!_

Everything in Patrick wanted to run to Pete, take him into his arms and confirm he was really there. It seemed wrong to interrupt him though. Patrick felt like he was invading a private moment. It felt as if this was something he wasn’t supposed to see, despite the fact that it was _his_ living room Pete was sitting in, and _his_ records that Pete was listening to.

Before Patrick could decide what to do, Pete opened his eyes; they widened in surprise as they noticed Patrick’s presence, and Pete immediately took off the headphones. “Patrick -! Fuck, I’m sorry,” he stuttered, “I didn’t expect you to be awake already, or I would’ve gone back to bed. Sorry.”

Only half-registering what Pete was saying, Patrick found himself already walking over to him. Pete looked at him cautiously, and shifted to his usual defensive position – knees drawn to his chest, arms slung around his legs. “Look, Patrick, I’m sorry-“

“Don’t be,” Patrick mumbled as he knelt behind him. He was just so glad to see that Pete was still here, safe with him, and all Patrick wanted was to wake up to that comforting thought every other morning, too. He wrapped his arms around Pete, and rested his head on Pete’s shoulder. Pete stayed silent, and left his own arms slung around his legs, but he leaned into the embrace just enough to signal Patrick that the gesture was okay with him.

It was only now that Patrick registered that Pete wore his hoodie – the same Patrick had lent him last time. It smelled faintly of cigarettes, too; Patrick suspected that since Pete knew where he kept his keys anyway, he may have used them to have a smoke at some point during the night. The hooker didn’t have a jacket with him, so Patrick felt relieved that Pete had taken his clothes instead. Not to mention that Patrick couldn’t deny that it felt good to see Pete in his clothes, to know that he was warm, to know Pete was comfortable enough to keep it on as if – _no_ , Patrick interrupted his train of thoughts. _Pete’s not here to make sappy gestures, and he’s not here to play my boyfriend. He’s a hooker, and he simply was cold_.

“I didn’t mean to let you wake up alone,” Pete mumbled. “And I – I’m sorry for just using your stuff. I couldn’t sleep, and – and I just got bored.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick mumbled. He remembered that last time, Pete probably hadn't slept either, and what was he supposed to do? Sit in bed for hours patiently, watching his client sleep? “I hope it provided some entertainment.”

Patrick could feel how Pete shrugged. “Yeah. Well. You don’t have any good Metal,” he said accusingly.

“Not really my thing,” Patrick gave as an answer as he looked around, curious to see what Pete had been listening to. His eyes widened when he saw some very familiar CD covers. “Pete, you – you listened to my work?”

“I got tired of Prince,” Pete said with another shrug, and Patrick inhaled sharply. He almost felt inclined to give a lecture about music history and its important figures, but the small chuckle from Pete indicated his remark had been in jest. “Sore spot, hm?” Pete said teasingly, and Patrick could picture the stupid grin lighting up his face. “Nah, come on. I was just curious to hear what you work on. And since they were all neatly aligned next to each other…”

For a moment, Patrick cursed the neat organization of his records.

“It’s some great stuff,” Pete interrupted his thoughts. “Told ya, I think you’re pretty talented.”

It dawned on Patrick that Pete may have listened to some of the records he had worked on last time he had been here. That would explain his comments about talent from yesterday. He mumbled another _thanks_ , and got another chuckle in response.

Silence settled between them. Patrick closed his eyes, and tried to savor the moment. Pete in his arms, warm and safe, _ah, if only I could wake up to this every morning_. All kinds of unsettling feelings crept up on him again – the disappointment of having to let go of Pete soon, the agonizing fear of what the next night held for Pete; would he be safe? Where would he go? Who would buy him next? What careless hands would leave all kinds of injuries on his body? Would someone hurt him -?

“Bass,” Pete blurted out, interrupting Patrick’s thoughts.

 

“Uh, what?” Patrick asked surprised, unable to make a connection.

 

“Bass,” Pete repeated quietly. “That’s what I used to play.”

Patrick remained silent, held his breath. He didn’t want to interrupt, and he was afraid that he could ruin the moment.

“I kind of sucked though,” Pete shrugged, and let out his ugly laugh. “Used to sing as well. Or, more like screaming, but you get the point. I had a voice, and I wanted people to hear it. Be it through screaming, or through my words.” He shook his head, and his eyes focused on something in the distance - maybe a memory from too long ago, from far-off places, when strangers’ faces were a cheering crowd and not his next anonymous client. “Actual words. Words that meant something to me, that used to own me and forced their way out onto worn-out notebook pages and into my screaming. Nothing like the bullshit I tell people nowadays.”

Patrick got the impression that Pete was talking more to himself than to him, but still. For the first time, Pete chose to open up to him on his own. It felt like the most intimate information Pete had given him yet.

Silence settled between them again, but Patrick didn’t press further. Pete had said his part, and Patrick was too afraid to scare him off, making him retreat into the hooker role again, _out of reach for me no matter how much money I pay him_.

Instead, Patrick took a deep breath, before speaking up again. “The bass, do you – do you want to try?”

“No. I’m never touching an instrument again.”

“That sounds a bit harsh,” Patrick said with a nervous laugh. “Are you sure? Look, I wouldn’t offer this to everyone –“

“I know, and I appreciate that,” Pete interrupted him, but his voice sounded gentler than before. He wriggled himself out of Patrick’s embrace, and turned around to face him. “It’s getting late, Patrick. Anything left that _you_ want to do?”

With slight disappointment that the conversation had turned to hooker business again, Patrick shook his head. Everything he wanted to do – hold Pete in his arms, listen to more of the stories buried inside of him, exchange tender touches and kisses and hear Pete let out a real moan, express what he really wanted, sleep with Patrick for _real_ in every sense of the phrase – no, none of that was anything the hooker would want to do.

“No,” he said quietly, not meeting Pete’s eyes. The once oh-so alluring grin now couldn’t enchant him like it had done before. With horror, Patrick realized how the basis of their relationship – _a hooker I pay for sex, a prostitute and his client, and nothing more_ – crumbled more and more into dust. Oh, he knew he would be back to buy Pete again, but for how long could Patrick hold up the pretense anymore?

 

These frightening thoughts were interrupted when Patrick felt Pete’s hand on his shoulder.

“Well, we haven’t done everything _I_ wanted to do.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asked, surprised. What was there left that _Pete_ wanted to do? All this had ever been about was what Patrick wanted. Pete never asked for anything, and usually just went along with whatever his client suggested. “What would that be, Pete?”

“A lot of things, actually,” he said with a predatory grin, voice loaded with a dark undertone. Patrick furrowed his brows; that was not the usual smug smile, and not the well-known sweet voice Pete went for when he tried to be persuasive.

“I want,” Pete started, and before Patrick could object, Pete’s hand cupped his chin, motioning him to lean closer. “I want – I want… Fuck, Patrick, I –“

The sentence remained unfinished, but words weren’t necessary anymore. Suddenly, Patrick realized how close Pete was, so close, too close, and then, there was nothing in between them anymore. Lips connected, hesitantly at first, because Patrick was too stunned to react. Pete so close, Pete’s finger pressing into his chin, Pete’s lips on his own for a kiss, a kiss, a kiss -!

It was messy and awkward during the first few seconds that it took Patrick to fully process what was happening. Pete was all too eager, and Patrick needed a moment until the reality hit him full force – Pete was kissing him, Pete was really kissing him, of his own free will, _finally, Pete is kissing me, Pete, Pete,_ _Pete –!_

Patrick kissed back fervently, desperately, as if that could make up for all the lost moments and missed opportunities in which he didn’t kiss Pete. Ah, that was all in the past, who cared about that, all that mattered was Pete, right there, wanting to kiss him.

All too soon, Pete broke the kiss to stand up, dragging Patrick with him.

There was no time to think, no time to protest. Patrick just let himself get pulled into the bedroom, then get maneuvered to lay on the bed, back pressed into the mattress and with Pete straddling his hips. He bowed down for another kiss, dark and dirty and demanding, rough and impatient but feeling so, so good. Pete only broke the kiss for a short moment to take off the borrowed hoodie and his shirt, and to drag off Patrick’s shirt as well, carelessly throwing it to the floor afterwards. “I want nothing in between us,” he declared, “clothes only get in the way.”

Patrick only nodded faintly. He couldn’t help but whimper at the loss of Pete’s lips and tongue tracing his own, but yes, no clothes sounded like a great idea. Pete rolled off of him, wiggling out of his tight pants in no time while Patrick had only managed to clumsily shove down his pajama pants and boxers to his knees. He felt like he made for a pretty pathetic sight, which Pete didn’t seem to mind at all. Pete impatiently dragged the pants and underwear off Patrick’s legs, and threw them aside, before he bowed down for another kiss. This time though, just a tease, causing Patrick to whimper again. More, more, he wanted _more_ , Pete couldn’t just stop and leave him like that. “Pete, please,” Patrick whispered, but he was interrupted by another soft kiss before Pete sat up again. “I want you to listen to me, Patrick,” Pete hissed, hands now on Patrick’s chest, fingers digging into flesh just enough to cause a delicious sensation of pain. “Don’t you always want me to talk? So, listen to me.”

“I am,” Patrick said weakly, suppressing a moan when Pete’s blunt nails dragged over his skin. Fuck, what was even happening right now? The hooker had never treated him like that before. Those weren’t any of the things the hooker would have said or done. No, something different was going on.

“I want you to fucking _look_ at me,” Pete growled, “I want you to treat me like a human being when you fuck me, not some cheap whore. Don’t you fucking dare treat me like you did yesterday _ever again_.”

Patrick winced as he recalled yesterday’s regrettable sexual experiences. “Pete, I’m sorry –“

“I don’t want you to be _sorry_ ,” Pete interrupted him harshly, “I want you to do it _better_ this time. So, hear me out, Patrick.”

That was a little difficult when Pete’s hands felt so good on him, when Patrick’s cock was twitching already in anticipation of being touched, aching for Pete’s fingers, mouth, tongue, _anything_ he was willing to give. Still, Patrick nodded. “Told you, I’m listening, anything you want, Pete.”

Ah, yes, this time, Patrick wouldn’t just _take_ anything from a hooker, no – he would accept whatever _Pete_ was willing to give, would be happy to give Pete anything he asked for.

“Good,” Pete said, that predatory grin back on his face. There was no smug remark about Patrick’s compliance, no silly little banter or name-calling. Just hungry eyes giving Patrick a look that sent a shiver down his spine as Pete leaned forward. “I want to kiss you again. Don’t you want that, too?”

“Yes,” Patrick replied breathlessly, yes, he wanted Pete to want to kiss him, oh, always, since forever!

“That’s what I thought,” Pete whispered, before leaning in for another kiss.

Finally, there was Pete’s hand on Patrick’s cock, talented fingers caressing the head, trailing over the shaft, a few gentle strokes. Pete had touched his dick countless times before, but it had never felt as intimate as now. There had never been kisses, there had never been this closeness, and Pete had never looked at him like that before, dark and determined and demanding.

It was too much, and not enough at the same time.

Patrick inhaled sharply when Pete bit down on his lower lip. “That fucking mouth,” Pete groaned, “your mouth, I want -!” He sat up. “I want more, Patrick.”

“What, Pete?” Patrick asked, breathless. “Just tell me, please – anything, anything you want.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Pete said in a low voice. He hesitated for a moment, as if to sort out his thoughts, before speaking up again: “No, first I want you to blow me, finger me nice and open while you suck my dick, and _then_ I want you to fuck me.”

Without much thought, Patrick sat up, and motioned Pete to lay down. Yes, anything Pete wanted, and the mere suggestion had been enough to make Patrick shiver in anticipation. Pete was already half-hard, and only grew harder under Patrick’s hands. Pete pulled him in for another kiss, then splayed his hand over Patrick’s chest to push him away. “Not enough,” he groaned, “not enough, Patrick, I told you, I want more.”

Patrick reached for the lube and condoms, still placed conveniently next to the bed on the nightstand. Pete watched his movements while lazily stroking his dick, a small moan falling from his lips. It was beautiful to see him like this, all eager anticipation and dirty demands. Unlike yesterday (or every time before) it didn’t feel like just a show.

Pete spread his legs a little wider, and held out his hand. “Condom, please.” Patrick handed him the rubber, which Pete rolled over his dick in no time. Patrick got between his legs, hands resting on Pete’s thighs, and the shadow of a doubt crossing his mind.

“Pete, are you sure –“

“Haven’t you been listening to me?” Pete hissed, “I told you what I want. Stop talking, Patrick, I want to feel your mouth on me instead.” He reached for Patrick’s face, then let his fingers run through his hair.

Patrick shook his head, and brushed Pete’s hand off. “Don’t. I hate having my hair pulled. I think I can suck dick without your guidance just fine.”

“Yeah?” Pete asked with a laugh, but it didn’t seem malicious or angry. “Okay, then. Sorry. But you better stay true to your word!”

“Oh, I will,” Patrick growled as he reached for Pete’s cock.

The condom was a bit of a let-down, as always, and the artificial taste of the rubber wasn’t as satisfying as flesh against flesh. But it was still Pete’s dick, hard and wanting, longing for Patrick, _for me, and no one else_ , and that was enough to make Patrick forget about any barricades between them. He ran his tongue over the shaft, the head, then slowly started to take Pete in.

“Fuck, I want – Patrick, can I put my legs-?” Pete didn’t finish the sentence, just propped himself up on his elbows, and tapped his finger against Patrick’s shoulder.

 

Patrick withdrew his mouth. “Yeah, yeah, sure,” he replied hastily, “Just wait. Uh, do you want -?” He reached for the lube and held it up, hoping Pete would understand. Pete nodded in response, and Patrick coated his fingers with lube. He let a first enter Pete’s body, before he leaned forward again to take Pete’s cock back into his mouth. It was rewarded with a moan, and true to his word, Pete threw his legs over Patrick’s shoulders.

When Patrick glanced up, he could see Pete tossing his head, could feel his heels digging into his back; he was a lot less restrained than during the blowjob last time. He wasn’t talking as much, no silly dirty words or overly loud moans but his response spoke for itself. It was messy and rough, nothing like the docile, agreeable reaction the hooker had given in the past, and fuck, it was much better this way.

Unlike the last time, this wasn’t about Patrick’s pleasure, it was about Pete, who, right now, had abandoned all useless rules and unnecessary boundaries.

It was so wrong, so fucking wrong, and Patrick had never felt better. That little voice in his head that never stopped questioning everything was drowned out in Pete’s groans, and every doubt was replaced with the need, the wish to give Pete his everything.

Patrick added a second finger, crooking them to find just the right spot inside of him. When he did, Pete let out a groan, and bucked his hips in a silent plea for more. Not long after that, he felt Pete’s finger tapping his shoulder. “Stop it,” Pete groaned, “I don’t wanna come yet.”

Patrick withdrew his mouth, sat up, and wiped away the spit on his face. He still had two fingers of his other hand buried inside of Pete as he sent him a questioning look. “You want a third?”

Pete seemed to contemplate that thought, but ultimately, he nodded. Upon that, Patrick slipped in another digit, waiting a few moments for Pete to adjust until he crooked his fingers, searching for Pete’s prostate again. According to the loud moan Pete let out, he soon found it. Patrick continued for a while, entranced with the sight of Pete underneath him – face flushed, lips trembling, his dick hard and wet from spit. How often had Pete been in the exact same position? Yet it had never felt like anything happening now. Patrick wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, how many lines were crossed and what boundaries breached forever, but he knew that this wasn’t the regular sex with the hooker.

“Fuck, fuck – enough, Patrick,” Pete interrupted his thoughts, and motioned Patrick’s hand away. He too sat up, impatiently dragging the condom off his cock. Patrick held his breath, and waited for Pete to speak up again. The hooker would usually have sent him a smug smile or bat his lashes, sweet voice inquiring what his client wanted to do, what position to assume, how he could please Patrick. None of that came.

Instead, Pete leaned in for another kiss, hands on Patrick’s thighs, frustratingly close yet too far away from his cock. Making out was great, but Patrick yearned for more. He pulled away, sending Pete a pleading look that Patrick would have felt pathetic for if not for the fact that lust and want and the last hint of Pete’s lips made everything else irrelevant. It evoked a dirty laugh from Pete, who put his hand on Patrick’s chest, motioning him to lay down. Patrick did, watched how Pete grabbed one of the condoms discarded on the mattress, cursing as he fumbled with the plastic wrapper. Finally, the rubber was rolled down over his dick, then Pete lubed him up with a few precise movements.

Pete straddled Patrick’s lap, Patrick’s dick still in his hand. For a fraction of a second, there was hesitation on Pete’s face; for a moment, the realization of what they were doing and what consequences there might be let him stop. There was no going back, they could _never_ go back to their cold, distant client-and-his-hooker relationship, but there was still time to stop falling down the rabbit hole of all the other emotions neither of them was prepared to deal with.

 

And yet, despite all that, Pete didn’t stop; and neither did Patrick.

 

The insecurity on Pete’s face vanished, replaced with determination and demand. Through the haze of his arousal, Patrick felt how another kiss was pressed on his lips, hasty and as if to reassure Pete that this was reality, this was really happening. Then, Pete tightened his grip around Patrick’s cock and finally, started to take him in.

Pete felt amazing, warm and tight around his cock like always, yet it was nothing like the countless times Patrick had fucked him before. The was no hurry, no hasty movements, no smug smiles or saccharine words. Slightly overwhelmed and unsure of what he was supposed to do, Patrick closed his eyes and turned his head away. That was apparently the wrong reaction, because he felt Pete’s hand on his jaw now, yanking his head up.

“I told you, I want you to fucking _look_ at me, Patrick,” Pete growled, fingers digging deeper into Patrick’s chin. “Don’t you dare to treat me like some anonymous fucktoy. Look at me, look me in the eye, it’s _me_ you’re fucking, not just some replaceable whore.”

Any answer died on Patrick’s lips as he felt his cock sliding deeper into Pete, embraced by the familiar hot, slick tightness and warmth of Pete’s body. He brushed Pete’s hand off his face, but kept his eyes on Pete just as requested. When Patrick’s cock was all the way inside of him, Pete took a moment to pause and adjust, breathing heavily. His hands aimlessly scratched over Patrick’s chest, leaving a faint trail of pink on pale skin. It felt delicious, nothing like what little touches the hooker had ever given him. Patrick didn’t like forceful gestures, but he definitely could appreciate this.

And he was glad Pete had told him to look because _fuck_ , he made for a beautiful sight. Face flushed, black lashes framing his eyes, the last traces of his stupid eyeliner barely visible; parted lips, chest heaving, his hard cock leaking already. Sure, Pete was always pretty to look at (despite the first hints of flaws and failure on his body), and Patrick had more than one look at his face during sex. But it had never been like this. There had never been this strange intimacy, and although Patrick had had his fair share of regrets and shame whenever he had looked at the naked hooker, it was nothing like the unsettling feeling he was experiencing now. There wasn’t a mask made up of sly smiles and a playful attitude, no smug grin, no confident, cocky words; this was _Pete_ , raw and exposed and vulnerable.

This was going in all kinds of directions, and it surely wasn’t just a hooker fucking his client for money anymore. They both knew it, and Patrick couldn’t help but speak up as his hands dug into Pete’s thighs, the dawn of fear and panic slightly tainting his arousal. “Pete, we –“

“Stop it, Patrick,” Pete interrupted him, but there wasn’t much sternness behind his voice. He sounded almost sad as he leaned forward, placing his index finger on Patrick’s lower lip to silence him. “Let’s… Let’s not talk, okay? Words failed me a long time ago, and I… Ah, all the ones I have left aren’t good enough for you. Let’s just…”

As he bowed down for another kiss, Patrick forgot whatever objections were on his mind. Nothing, no, nothing mattered at that moment aside from Pete’s lips on his own, God, how long had he wanted this?

“I want you to touch me,” Pete moaned as his other hand grabbed Patrick by the wrist, guiding it to his cock. “I’ve missed your hands on me – touch me, Patrick, everywhere!”

There was no need to repeat that request. “Yeah, I want that too,” Patrick whispered as he took Pete’s dick into his right hand, and let his left hand roam over every inch of exposed skin he could find – his thighs, sharp hipbones, the stupid tattoo on his groin. Patrick splayed his fingers over Pete’s ribcage shielding Pete’s heart from the outer world, the only part of Pete that Patrick wanted to touch more than anything else.

He reached for Pete’s face. The stubble on his jawline, soft cheeks, even softer lips, parts he knew so well yet could never get enough of.

Finally, Pete started to move, slowly at first, a small groan escaping his mouth. It was less high-pitched, not as sweet as his hooker sounds, somewhat raw and unpolished, and Patrick never wanted to hear anything else again.

They soon worked out a rhythm, Patrick bucking his hips and Pete pushing back against his cock, eager and greedy. There weren’t any exaggerated moans or theatrical expressions, there wasn’t any ridiculous begging or stale little lies supplied by Pete. There wasn’t that usual feel of control Patrick used to have, or the knowledge that in the end everything the hooker did was to his client’s benefit; this was unknown territory and sex with an unknown person, with Pete, Pete, _Pete and no one else._

Patrick inhaled sharply when Pete increased speed with a delectable little cry of pleasure, fuck, why had Patrick never heard that sound before? He tightened his grip on Pete’s hips. Everything was too much and not enough, too close but not close enough, too familiar yet completely unknown, too uncertain yet absolutely clear. Patrick could feel the dawn of his orgasm low in his stomach, the promise of sweet relief and the looming dark reminder of reality that would soon settle in again.

“Pete, I’m gonna,” Patrick gasped, “slow down, please –!”

“No, fuck, don’t come already,” Pete hissed, desperation in his voice. “I want to – I need to – want to come first, with your dick inside of me…”

Patrick bit his lower lip, trying to will himself into not giving in to his orgasm already. Pete slowed down a little, while Patrick’s right hand, still wrapped around Pete’s cock, picked up speed. There wasn’t any begging, no theatrical humiliation, no delusional mind games or apologies. Just unashamed lust and an urgency behind every move that differed from the usual desperation. Pete was breathing heavily, eyes squeezed shut, fingers clutching into Patrick’s skin, another trail of faint pink from his rib cage to his hips.

Patrick could feel him clench down around his cock, all tight heat accompanied with the well-known whimper as Pete came, thick ribbons of cum landing on Patrick’s hand, stomach, chest. It was too fucking much, and all self-restraint was abandoned in an instant. Patrick came, too, hard and intense, with a loud moan and Pete’s name falling from his lips.

 

An eternity seemed to pass, a vacuum of time in which nothing mattered aside from that brief moment of blissful satisfaction.

Patrick absentmindedly stroked over Pete’s thighs, relished in the beautiful sight Pete made, enjoyed the intimacy between them that went deeper than just sex. For a few seconds, he felt like Pete was truly _his_. Not because Patrick had bought him, not because Patrick had made him come, but because Pete _chose_ to be his, of his own free will.

Pete bowed down for one last kiss, soft and gentle and tainted with sadness already. It wasn’t laced with desire and lust anymore, it didn’t have the urgency of before. It felt like goodbye, and Patrick couldn’t help but sling his arms around Pete, wanting to keep them like this forever. Why, why did Pete always have to go? Why did it always have to end?

He could feel his cock sliding out of Pete, felt Pete gently shrugging off his arms from him as he climbed off his lap. Patrick sat up, and noticed that Pete had swept the condom off his dick, his head turned away and ready to leave. No, please, Pete couldn’t just go, “Pete, please,” Patrick found himself saying as he reached for him and grabbed his arm, “don’t go – you don’t have to leave.”

There was a moment of hesitation, a skipped heartbeat as Pete seemed to consider giving in. But instead, Pete softly shook his head. “I can’t, Patrick,” he whispered, “time’s up.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Patrick tried to argue, knowing full well he was fighting a battle that was lost from the start. “Stay with me, Pete. Please, don’t go.”

The silence following his words was answer enough. Pete wordlessly stood up, collected the leftover lube and condoms from the nightstand and his clothes from the floor, then hurried out of the room, clearly wanting to escape the situation. Tears welled up in Patrick’s eyes as he reached for his own clothes with trembling fingers. Regret twisted his stomach, and Patrick had felt plenty of that ever since the first time he had picked the hooker up, but it had never felt like this.

Pete was already standing in the doorway, fully dressed and his backpack slung over his shoulder. It was how their encounters usually ended, like they were _supposed_ to end, and Pete gave an almost convincing performance only undermined by all the small details Patrick easily picked up on – hands clenched into fists, lips twisted into a false smile, blank eyes that wouldn’t meet Patrick’s.

For a moment, Patrick expected, almost hoped to see the usual smug grin overtake Pete’s face, hear the usual words coming out of his mouth – _wasn’t that fun, Patrick? Enjoyed the little extra? That’s on the house, but I worked so hard for today, so you better come back to me!_ – anything to indicate that everything was still normal, that there wasn’t a giant tear in their false reality, a gloomy abyss between them.

No such words came, and the silence lingering between them made it clear these words would never come. Whatever went unsaid weighted far more heavily.

 

Patrick took a step forward. He wanted to hug Pete, wanted to take him into his arms and make him stay. He wanted to grasp what little of Pete was left, but Pete already took two steps back, panic erasing his brittle smile. “Don’t.”

“Stay,” Patrick whispered one last time.

“No,” Pete said quietly. “I can’t. Our time’s up, Patrick, and you know it.”

Every last bit of Patrick longed to hold him back. It would be so easy to grab his arm, to pull him back, but what for? It would only prolong the inevitable for a few more seconds. Pete had decided to leave already, and no amount of begging would hold him back.

One last sad smile, a flash of whiskey-colored eyes devoid of the usual playful, confident attitude, and a small nod from Pete as he turned around to open the door.

“See you, Patrick.”

And then, he was gone.

 

 

 

 

The door fell shut behind Pete, and he ran down the stairs without stopping to look back. A small part of him had hoped Patrick would have held him back, but the bigger part of him was relieved he didn’t – it hurt too fucking much to deny Patrick again. And really, that was all Pete could do.

It was one thing to fuck a John for money. It was a completely different thing to sleep with Patrick like that – as if he wasn’t a client, _as if I was something better than a hooker_.

_God, what have I been thinking?_

It could have been so easy. All Pete had to do was shut his goddamn mouth and be the prostitute Patrick paid him to be. Really, it wasn’t that hard. It was the oldest profession in the world, it was a performance Pete had given countless times. It was so easy, hadn’t it been so simple every other time?

_Then why did I fail?_

Pete hurried through the street, keeping his head down and barely paying attention to his surroundings. The heavy feeling in his chest made it hard to breathe, and the tears stinging in his eyes let the contours of everything blur together, but the mess inside his mind let Pete forget about everything else. If he thought about it (which he didn’t want to, but there was no way to quieten his ruthless brain right now), it had been a disaster in the making for a while now. Pete recalled all his other little missteps from every time before, how he had given way to the catastrophe that eventually ruined everything.

Like always. Like always. Like fucking _always_.

 _I can’t even be a good whore_.

Why had he allowed Patrick in? How could he have ever thought this would bring either of them more than pain and heartbreak?

Everything inside of Pete hurt, for all the wrong reasons. He tried to be angry at Patrick – angry that Patrick had pried and prodded until Pete let his guard down, that Patrick hadn’t left him alone and just treated him like always, but no, he insisted on treating Pete like a person, not a hooker he paid for sex. But he couldn’t convince himself to feel any of that.

The only one Pete felt angry with was himself.   

Because when Patrick _had_ done what Pete thought he had wanted him to do – shut his mouth, and just fuck him senselessly, like Pete’s client were supposed to do – it had brought neither any of the relief or smug satisfaction Pete had anticipated.

All it had made him feel was disappointed, all it had caused was that Pete had longed for something different, something more, something they had almost achieved the last time Patrick had asked him to stay the night. Something personal and intimate, something _real_.

Something he should have never asked of Patrick. No, something he should never have allowed himself to even think about for one second, let alone follow through with it.

But after spending the night at Patrick’s, after getting acquainted with more and more aspects of his life, after Patrick slinging his arms around him and being so kind and caring again… It had been just little things, yet they finally broke Pete down for good. Made him curious, made him want to try, if maybe, just maybe –

Pete bit his lip, hard and vicious until he tasted copper and relief. He shouldn’t be thinking things like that. Patrick wasn’t his savior, his fairytale prince. Patrick still had a chance for a normal life, and he didn’t deserve to have that ruined by some hooker from the streets. Pete thought back to his failures with Brendon, more evidence that he wasn’t good for anyone. And he wouldn’t allow Patrick to get dragged down, too.

If Patrick had pushed him away, that would have made things easier. But he hadn’t of course, and Pete had known that Patrick would be oh so eager to reciprocate all the kisses and touches Pete had to give. And so, like the idiot he was, Pete had left everything in ruins again.

Soon enough, he had reached the questionable parts of town that gave failures like him shelter. With heavy legs, he stumbled up the stairs to his tiny apartment, cold and empty.

It had never felt less like home.

 

The hours passed by in a blurred mess of chaotic thoughts, anxiety tightening Pete’s chest. He traded food for more calming pills, who cared that they shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach? Pete didn’t care, he didn’t want to care about anything anymore, he just wanted the screaming thoughts in his head to stop. Another benzo, and another shot at happiness, until Pete’s hands shook too much, and until it felt like every bone in his body was turning liquid.

When the diminishing sunlight announced the start of the workday for Pete, he considered staying home. But the mere thought of pacing through his room in endless circles, with nothing to keep his mind occupied, nothing to distract him, was unbearable. It would be easier to deal with a harsh hand twisting into his hair, or a dick shoved inside of him with just the help of the bare minimum amount of spit. It would be good to get the delusions he had allowed himself to feel today with Patrick fucked out of him, and maybe, get some sense shoved into him as well. _Anything_ would be a welcome distraction, anything that kept his mind off Patrick and anything that let his heart forget about stupid, dangerous emotions. Pain was what Pete deserved, anyway, for being so fucking stupid, and maybe, it would teach him a lesson about who he was. Where he belonged. What he deserved. _A cheap hooker whoring himself out on the corner of the street, someone who deserves nothing._

With these thoughts, Pete finally got up to get ready, ignoring how his hands trembled when he put on his usual make up, and trying to push aside the fact that deep down, no matter what, he wished Patrick would come back tonight.

When Pete arrived at his usual corner, Brendon was nowhere to be seen. The kid was probably out on a job already. Bile rose in Pete’s throat at the suspicion of what might happen with the extra money that Brendon made; all he could do was watch as the kid descended further into a fatal spiral. Pathetic, _just pathetic._

Pete couldn’t even help this kid. He had nothing to offer to anyone aside from a pretty face and ugly lies. How could he ever think he would be able to have a relationship that went past being paid a few dollar bills to suck someone’s dick? He wasn’t good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough –

 

“Hey, you there.”

An unknown voice tore Pete out of his thoughts. He hastily straightened his back, and tried to focus on the person who had just addressed him. A potential client, Pete reminded himself, _this is what I’m here for._

Automatically, Pete lowered his head a little, and put on his business smile. “Yes, sir? May I help you?”

The guy – middle age, unremarkable looks, hostile face – stared at his body, especially the tattoos, before he spoke up again. “Are you Pete?”

Pete raised his brows. How did the guy know his name? True, he had told a few Johns before, but most people didn’t give a single fuck. The few regulars that did know his name were all guys that Pete would have recognized, and this was not one of them.

Either way, a client was a client. Pete batted his lashes, and sent the man a coquettish smile. “I can be Pete, if you want me to be.”

“Don’t fucking start with the cheap hooker games, you goddamn whore,” the guy hissed, obviously not impressed. He sounded pissed beyond belief and Pete hadn’t said more than a few words. This already sounded like a bad customer that should be avoided at all costs. Sucked that he was going to miss out on money, but –

Before Pete could finish his thoughts and think of a polite way to blow the guy off, he was shoved against the wall behind him, two fists curling into his shirt and pressing into his ribs. “You _are_ Pete, right? You’re that son of a bitch that Brendon keeps talking about.”

On instinct, Pete raised his arms, about to shove that guy away from him and tell him to fuck off. Before he could do so, a question jolted through his mind.

How did this guy know Brendon?

It took Pete a moment, but then, everything fell into place, and a horrible realization made him stop, hands fisted uselessly into the guy’s jacket.

This was the man Brendon was staying with. That fucking asshole who messed around with the kid, who forced the boy to continue working as a hooker, who hurt Brendon.

“Fucking try me, slut,” the man said in a low voice, “everything you do I’ll give back twice to Brendon.”

Of fucking course. Pete felt anger rising in him, hot and white and dangerous, but he didn’t dare to move. The guy was ruthless, that much Pete knew by just one look at Brendon’s bruises, and Pete wouldn’t get the kid in any more trouble.

“You’re gonna come with me, and we’re gonna have a nice chat.”

“I don’t think so,” Pete said through gritted teeth. He couldn’t hurt this bastard, but that didn’t mean he would just comply. “As you pointed out, sir, I’m a hooker. My time is going to cost you money.”

“ _You_ are the one who’s wasting _my_ time.” The guy kept his voice down, but it was obvious he was rather agitated. Anger and bad intention radiated off every inch of him. “Now let’s take a step aside and let me fucking talk to you before I lose my patience.”

Well, there didn’t seem to be much patience to begin with, and Pete wasn’t too keen on finding out what would happen if that little bit that was there was to vanish. With poorly disguised annoyance, he followed the man to the small alleyway around the corner, just a few feet away. He saw no other way to get rid of the guy. What was the alternative? Whatever anger Pete caused in the man, Brendon would be the one to suffer, and Pete wasn’t willing to let that happen. It would be best to just get it over with, give the guy whatever he wanted – maybe a free fuck, or maybe, he just wanted to scream and shout at someone – and be done with it.

Pete crossed his arms and took a step back. “Okay, so, what the fuck do you have to say to me?”

“You’ll stop talking to Brendon,” the man hissed as he came closer. “You’ll stop giving him all these ideas about leaving me. The boy is mine, you understand? I won’t let a goddamn whore tell him otherwise.”

So that was what this was all about.

“Brendon doesn’t belong to _anyone_ , fucker,” Pete heard himself say, not caring about the scorn and anger in his words. “If anyone, it’s you who should leave the kid alone –“

The first fist came earlier than Pete had anticipated. Apparently, the man did not intend to waste time arguing with a hooker.

Pain exploded in Pete’s head as it connected with the wall behind him a little too harshly.

He was even less prepared for the second blow to his stomach. For a second, his vision blacked out, and he felt his legs give out from under him as he sank to his knees.

 

“Any resistance, and your pretty face will go first,” the man growled, “and how will you be able to work if that’s ruined?”

Silence was all Pete had for an answer, his mouth agape and his finger uselessly scraping over the cold concrete. A part of him wanted to get back up, to fight back, to give that fuckface a taste of his own fists. Not that Pete thought he stood much of a chance, but he could still get up, he could still try, he could…

But Pete did nothing.

Because he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. Pete could scream and shout all he wanted, he could try to put up a fight, he could pretend to be worth more and that he deserved to be treated better, but what use would it be?

Nothing.

“What’s that? You won’t even give me a smartass answer?” The man seemed irritated at the lack of a reply.

Pete couldn’t help Brendon, he couldn’t force the madness out of his head, he couldn’t pretend he was anything other than a cheap hooker from the street. He could scream and punch and cry all he wanted, all it would do would make Brendon’s life even harder. Pete’s resistance would just make _both_ their lives more miserable.

He had been defeated before the guy had even raised his hand. There was no use to fight back, nothing he ever did was of any use, it didn’t matter, didn’t matter, _didn’t matter_.

Pete wiped over his face, flinched when he felt the beginning of swelling around his eye where the first punch had landed. There was no need to reply. Words had failed Pete a long time ago already, so why bother?

The man stayed true to his word – he didn’t lay a hand on Pete’s face, but there was another kick to his chest, one that didn’t leave any air in Pete’s lungs as he hinged over.

“You’ll stay the fuck away from Brendon.” The man curled his hand into Pete’s hair, forcing him to look up. “You’ll stay the fuck away from Brendon, or I’ll make you regret it, I’ll make you _really_ regret it, whore. Don’t make me come back, because next time, I won’t be so nice.”

There wasn’t anything left to fight for. Patrick, Brendon, everyone would be better off without Pete. If he was gone, everyone’s lives would improve. No more questions, no more doubts, no more worries.

There was more sharp pain blooming in his chest, but the words hurled at him stopped making sense. Pete didn’t have an answer, because he never did, never had any answers to begin with, so he stayed silent.

It didn’t matter what they were doing to his body, it had stopped mattering a long time ago. Pete was a whore, his body was for public consumption, and if that man wanted to hurt him – it was only fair, wasn’t it? It was exactly what he was here for.

Pete was the one who ruined everything, so it was only fair if he got ruined now, too.

It was just easier to give in, it was just easier to accept the voice in his head that chanted _you deserve this, you deserve this, you deserve this_ , loud and shrill, until more pain came, until darkness replaced Pete’s blurred vision, and everything went silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, finally a kiss! It only took us 100k+ words! And didn't it go so well? No? Well, I'm sorry. A little bit. 
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr, I do more art there!  
> If you like the art for this chapter, please reblog it to spread the word, it would mean a lot to me and it helps out so much! :)


	11. My Life Is A Succession Of People Saying Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally have The Talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! MANIA is out so here's something to celebrate, I guess. 
> 
> Title, as always, from a Morrissey Song. Also, now with even more angsty art! Because how could I resist. 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being a patient beta reader, and for keeping up with all my shit. I owe you so much!

 

 

 

 

It took a lot for Patrick to work up the courage to come back.

All kinds doubts roared through his mind, and the unsettling feeling in his chest made it hard to breathe. He knew that the confrontation was inevitable, and he knew that the next meeting with Pete would be different than every other one before – it might very well be the last one. He had always known that this arrangement wouldn’t go on forever, and he had known for a while now that his relationship with the hooker had come to an end. He would never be able to buy Pete, use him and dispose of him as he used to do. He would never be able to see Pete as just the hooker again, and after last time, he suspected that whatever Pete saw him as, it had surpassed the status of just a regular client.

Patrick didn’t want it to end. But he also didn’t want to go on like this. He needed clarity, no matter how frightening and unpleasant, and for that, he needed to see Pete again.

For three days, he had passed through Pete’s street, but each time the hooker hadn’t been at his usual spot. Patrick had just seen his friend standing a little bit further away from the corner, which was unusual as well. He was tempted to approach Brendon to ask about Pete’s whereabouts, but refrained when he remembered the last time. The answer was clear already: Pete was probably just out on a job, getting fucked by someone else, a terrible thought that Patrick didn’t need to be reminded of. On top of that, when the boy had noticed Patrick’s car, he had looked away. That stood in stark contrast to the confident, cocky behavior he had displayed previously, and all the ugly details about the boy’s demise that Pete had told him about passed through Patrick’s mind. The mere thought that Brendon, that _this child_ – _if Pete kept referring to him as boy, how old must he be? Maybe young enough to be jailbait, and definitely too young to be standing at a corner, offering sex for money_ – would force himself to put on a smile and try to sell his body to Patrick to buy whatever drugs were ruining Pete was sickening.

 

On the fourth day, finally, Patrick spotted Pete at his usual corner, alone. He was smoking a cigarette, fingers trembling despite the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing. It was the first time Patrick had seen him wear something that covered that much of his skin. It was still ridiculously tight, and way too thin for the cold evening. When he noticed that Patrick had parked his car in front of him, he threw the cigarette away, and headed over to his client.

When Pete stopped in front of his car, Patrick noticed he wore unusually overly dramatic eye make-up, the black streaks of smudged eyeliner just messy enough to still pass as intentional. “Patrick!” He exclaimed, just a slight strain to his voice. “What can I do for you? Come to fetch me away for the whole night again?”

“Yes,” Patrick mumbled, already fumbling with his wallet. He hated himself when he pressed the cash into Pete’s hand, but what other way was there to get Pete to come with him? He silently leaned over to open the door, and let Pete into his car.

Patrick noticed that during the car ride, Pete made sure to keep his head turned slightly to the right, so that this side of his face was out of Patrick’s view. He kept quiet, and he hadn’t bothered with the usual banter when Patrick had picked him up either. Patrick blamed it on the awkwardness of their situation, and decided to just concentrate on driving for now.

When they arrived at Patrick’s apartment, Pete headed to the bathroom. “Wait,” Patrick said nervously, “you don’t need to –“

“I do,” Pete interrupted him in a scornful voice, “if I may remind you, I’m _dirty_ , Patrick.” With that, he slammed the bathroom door shut, giving Patrick no time to reply.

With a sigh, Patrick went into the living room. The heavy feeling in his chest only got worse with each passing second, and he already dreaded the moment Pete would come out of the bathroom. Patrick didn’t want to play the hooker game anymore, he didn’t want Pete to be naked and dolled up to play a prostitute. It felt wrong the last time already, and today, after everything that had happened, Patrick knew it could only feel worse.

With another sigh, Patrick pulled down the brim of his hat even further. It was silly to keep it on, and he had never cared much for it when it was clear that Pete was here for sex, and sex alone. But today, that was the furthest thing from Patrick’s mind, and knowing that there was going to be an unavoidable, uncomfortable conversation ahead made him yearn for what little security and confidence he could get.

When Pete came out of the bathroom, he was naked, just as anticipated. Patrick had braced himself for that, but not for what else he was seeing.

There were bruises on Pete’s body, worse than ever before, nothing like Patrick had ever seen.

Back on the streets, the forgiving hands of the night’s shadows had painted over the remains of the less gentle hands of a former client. But now under the bright artificial light of Patrick’s living room, it was all too evident.

 

Purple, yellow, blue and green, a whole rainbow of pain. Skin sure can display interesting colors once it’s broken; pain frees it from being restricted to the dull, limited pallet of the usual complexions, instead generously allowing to display every imaginable color. Violet, pink, Bordeaux, perversions of flowers blooming on Pete’s skin. The bruises overshadowed Pete’s tattoos like a cruel parody of ink.

Suddenly Patrick realized why there was so much more makeup on Pete’s face than usual. And with horror and disgust, it finally dawned on Patrick _why_ Pete had been absent the last three days.

Pete noticed Patrick’s horrified gaze on his body, and shrugged. “Told you. Can’t everyone be as nice as you, Patrick,” Pete said, and the false, sickly-sweet tone in his voice hit Patrick harder than anger would have.

“Pete, what… What happened?” Patrick asked in a trembling voice, unable to avert his eyes from Pete’s injured body.

“That’s none of your fucking business,” Pete hissed, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Patrick felt his heart hammering in his chest, his hands shaking, and he knew his voice would come out all weak and pathetic-sounding. But he couldn’t stay silent. “Please, Pete, tell me, what happened? Who did this? What –“

“Don’t act like a clueless, naive idiot, Patrick. I don’t need to spell it out for you,” Pete spat out, no more trace of pretend sweetness left. “You can _see_ what happened. Stop with the fucking questions, I’m so goddamn sick and tired of them.”

More of them lingered on Patrick’s tongue nonetheless, as another thought played over and over in his mind. _Someone hurt him, someone dared to hurt him –_

“Let’s just get to the part I’m here for, Patrick.” The smile was back on Pete’s lips, belied by the blankness in his eyes, defaced by the shadow of the bruise. “I’m your whore, not your charity project. And I’m here to suck your dick and let you put it wherever else you want. So, let’s cut the bullshit and do that already.”

“We don’t need to,” Patrick stuttered, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topics. How the hell could Pete even think about sex right now? “You don’t need to do any of this –“

“ _Yes_ , Patrick, I _need_ to. I need the money, and I need it now. It would take too long until the bruises fade.” Pete stared at him, eyes narrowed. “So if you aren’t pleased, don’t waste my time and tell me now. I’ll give you your money back, and just go look for someone else.”

Patrick shook his head. No way would he let Pete go out to the streets again to find another client, someone who was willing to overlook the injuries, and maybe just as willing to add their own bruises to Pete’s skin.

Still, Patrick hesitated. “Really, we don’t need to do anything,” he repeated nervously. “I just want you to stay, Pete, please. I promise I won’t do anything. I won’t hurt you. I won’t – please, just stay.”

To his surprise, this only seemed to anger the hooker.

Pete furrowed his brows, and his narrowed eyes stared at Patrick with discontent and annoyance. “Spare me your pity,” Pete hissed, “don’t treat me like I’m broken. I’m still _functional. I’m fine_.”

Patrick wanted to object this doubtful statement. He felt anger rising in him – did Pete really think he was that stupid? Did Pete really think he was one of those gross clients who would just ignore the obvious pain and injuries? Why did Pete keep insisting on hurting himself?

Before he could say anything, he felt Pete’s finger against his lips. “Why don’t you just shut up, and let me do my job? I’m here to make you feel better, Patrick. Just lean back, relax, and forget everything else, okay?”

“I can’t just forget!” Patrick spat out, and pushed Pete’s finger away. “Do you expect me to just – just ignore that someone beat you up this badly? Do you really just want me to pretend none of this happened? Do you really think everything is just _fine_?”

“I don’t want you to think _anything_!” Whatever pretense Pete had held on up to this point started to vanish again, and his voice grew louder with each sentence. “And I told you to stop asking all these goddamn questions! Stop expecting me to solve these problems! Oh, you don’t have any answers either! I’m here as your hooker, nothing more, right? You shouldn’t want anything from my mouth, no, anything from _me_ aside from sex.”

Patrick fell silent. Pete was panting, anger tearing up his face. But Patrick couldn’t bring himself to debate and further, because wasn’t Pete right? He was telling the truth for once, stating the facts as they were. _I shouldn’t want more_ , and yet, here they were.

When no reaction came, Pete seemed to lose his momentary anger.

“I can’t… How could I think about sex right now? Just look at you, Pete. I don’t want to hurt you,” Patrick murmured, his face burning and his heart beating faster. “I don’t want _anyone_ to hurt you, Pete.”

“You can’t hurt me, Patrick. No one can.” Pete shrugged. “It only hurts when you try to fight. It only hurts when you allow them to hurt you. And maybe, sometimes, I deserve it. Maybe, sometimes I need it, to remind me of reality.”

“Of _reality_?” Patrick repeated incredulously. “Look, Pete, I don’t know what goes on in your brain, but there’s no reality in which whatever happened to you is anywhere near okay, and certainly not something you deserve for – for whatever stupid reason you believe you do.”

“Right,” Pete said, but it was clear he didn’t believe the words. “I’m not here for reality anyway, am I? _Reality_ is not a product sold by a hooker like me. But I have something much better instead…”

Patrick felt two arms sliding around his waist, saw a pair of eyes rimmed by make-up that couldn’t quite cover the remains of a bruise around one of them. “No alcohol today?” Pete asked with a sad smile. “And you’re still in your clothes – even in your stupid hat! Why don’t you get rid of everything between us...?”

Pete reached for the hat, presumably to take it off, but Patrick couldn’t help but bat his hand away. Taking it off, taking _any_ of his clothes off felt so wrong right now. Being pressed against a naked Pete, something he had always enjoyed so much… Patrick couldn’t find any of the usual pleasure in it. He received an irritated look when he batted Pete’s arm away, a frown lingering on Pete’s face before he brought his mouth closer.

Patrick felt the wetness of Pete’s mouth on his neck, Pete’s words vibrating against his skin and through his body, worming their way right into Patrick’s heart. “Patrick,” Pete moaned, “c’mon, Patrick, please, let’s just forget…”

There was the warmth of Pete’s body, so naked and vulnerable in his arms, Pete’s hand sliding under his shirt, wouldn’t it just be easier to follow Pete’s lead, and just pretend?

 

No, it wouldn’t, and it never would be again, ever, injuries or not.

 

“Stop it, Pete,” Patrick whispered, his voice bordering on panic. No way he could pretend Pete was just a hooker, no way he could just close his eyes and just forget no matter how hard Pete tried. No way he could ever bring himself to sleep with the hooker like he had the last time, especially not when that real sex with the real Pete lingered on his mind, had shown him the grave discrepancy between those two things.

“Stop it,” Patrick repeated, with more urgency than before. “I don’t want this anymore.”

“You don’t want me?” Pete repeated, words muffled against Patrick’s skin. “That’s not true. You want me, Patrick. You want me, you – just tell me what I need to do. Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you. Beg for you? Plead and cry and scream? Do you want me to laugh and grin and smirk at you? Do you -?”

“I want none of that,” Patrick interrupted him, words spilling out of him before he could stop himself, “none, Pete, none of that, ever again. I can’t do this anymore.”

The refusal made Pete freeze up, fingers digging into Patrick’s back. The gravity of the words weighed them down, made it harder to breath.

When Pete lifted his head he grinned, but it wasn’t the usual grin reserved for customer interaction; it was baring teeth. “Can’t do this anymore, huh? What, are you too good for the dirty hooker from the street now? Is that what this is about? Because you’re no better than me, asshole. You’re the one who just paid me money to be here in the first place, remember? You’re ugly and broken, just like me.”

Patrick felt hot, white anger flooding him. “That’s not what this is about,” he hissed, but the hooker ignored him.

“Isn’t that what I am to you, Patrick? The dirty little damsel in distress that you pretend you’re saving? And now, your favorite toy is broken, and it makes you angry, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not my toy, and all I’m doing is trying to do is solve this mess!” With that, he shoved the hooker away from him, causing Pete to stumble backwards. Patrick tried to bite back the wave of shame and anger when Pete mentioned the money he had been paid. Maybe, this hadn’t been the best plan, _but I’m trying at least, and it’s not like Pete’s any more reasonable_. In fact, Pete was being anything _but_ reasonable, and his unwillingness to ever take anything seriously was aggravating.

There was a moment of silence. Patrick expected more angry words, more accusations, more screaming. Instead, Pete’s eyes looked dull, like they had lost the will to fight. “If I’m not good enough for sex,” he heard the hooker say, “maybe you should give me something else.”

Patrick wanted to object, wanted a moment to finally explain himself, but Pete paid no attention to that. He laughed, but not his usual ugly laugh – it sounded more like a growl, tearing the sound out of the air with bare teeth.

“You’re angry, aren’t you? So go ahead, Patrick. Hit me. Maybe _that’s_ what I deserve. Maybe that can make you happy.” Pete opened his arms and came one steps closer, their bodies almost touching again. An offering.

 

And with horror, Patrick realized Pete wouldn’t fight back, would just accept the fists hitting him like he accepted them stroking his body, wouldn’t flinch away, wouldn’t even bother making any unnecessary noises like the ones he faked during sex. It would be quiet, violent, precise destruction.

 

“You’re sick. _This_ is sick. I’m not – I’m not going to hit you!” Patrick took a step back, away from the other man and away from the temptation of losing his temper, letting his fists connect with a body all too willing to accept whatever injuries were forced upon it.

 

He could taste the bile in his throat, and felt his fists unclenching. His whole body was shaking, and he firmly crossed his arms over his chest, trying to regain posture and control over himself.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Patrick hissed, but with each passing second, his anger vanished more and more. “I’m not going to play this sick game with you.”

“I just want to give you what you want, Patrick.” Pete’s voice was quiet, but there was no indication that he had registered his actions as being anything bad. Patrick felt even more sick at the thought that Pete was being honest, that he really was willing to give everything, that he didn’t even understand how wrong this was anymore. Patrick couldn’t help but wonder if it had been the same with whatever bastard that had dared to lay hand on Pete; if Pete had just accepted it for whatever twisted reason.

Everything was still a mess, and Patrick couldn’t take it any longer.

“I’ve had enough. You want to give me what I want? Then get dressed,” Patrick finally said, “and then, we’re going to talk, like normal people do.”

“Seriously?” Pete asked with scorn, “you’re kidding me, right?”

But Patrick wasn’t willing to let that slide.

“You’re getting dressed, and then you either leave, or you sit down and talk to me,” Patrick said, trying to sound as confident and authoritative as possible. “Keep the money, I don’t care. You’re free to go. Or, you’re staying, and we’ll try to... Whatever. Talk. Just… Talk.”

“We’re talking right now,” Pete said with a sickly-sweet smile, “and wouldn’t you like my mouth on your cock much more? You didn’t pay a hooker to have pointless chit-chat, right?”

Patrick just shook his head. “Get dressed,” he repeated through gritted teeth, “and then do whatever you want.”

There were a dozen other objections on Pete’s lips, and yet, he stayed silent, and did as he was told. He headed towards the bathroom, while Patrick sat down on his couch, trying his best not to panic. He pulled the brim of his hat down, as if that made any difference, as if Pete hadn’t seen him in various stages of undressed, sweaty, and undone.

He didn’t look up when Pete came out of the bathroom again. If Pete left now, Patrick had to accept it, but he couldn’t bear to see the hooker leave anyway.

 

But Pete didn’t leave.

 

Instead, he sat down on the other end out the couch. No body contact, no silly little games, no sweet little smile. Patrick counted that as a good first step.

“I can’t remember you paying me for _talking_. I can’t remember you mentioning your sudden need for conversation when you picked me up,” Pete said after a while, with clear annoyance. “That’s a good start, lying to me like this, don’t you think?”

Patrick bit his lip and averted his eyes, found his hand wondering towards his hat again to adjust it. Why did all of this start off so wrong again and again?

“If I had been honest, would you have come with me?”

“The point is, you weren’t. Could’ve at least been so nice to give me the choice, huh?”

“You can still leave.”

 

“How fucking _friendly_ of you,” Pete scoffed. “But, okay, fine, we’re talking.” He paused, and sent Patrick an angry glare. “First off, maybe you could be so polite and take off the stupid hat? Fucking _look_ at me when I talk to you, asshole.”

“It’s not _stupid_ ,” Patrick blurted out, “it’s my favorite hat, and actually – whatever. Never mind.” This was not the time to confess to the hooker how much he liked hiding, how easy it had been to be exposed when he had taken off the barrier of clothes for just sex, not meaningful conversation.

It didn’t go unnoticed by Pete, anyway. “You have your own special little insecurities, huh?” He asked as he watched Patrick hurry to the hallway, where he threw the hat next to his keys. Patrick didn’t reply; not that it was necessary. The answer was clear already, and Pete knew him well enough to have picked up on some of his flaws.

“Okay, you wanna talk?” Pete asked when Patrick sat down on the couch again, unsure of what to do next. “Well, _talk_ then. I feel like I’ve told you quite a bit already, and maybe, you could reciprocate a little here?”

Patrick bit his lip. There was so much going on in his head, he wanted to say everything and nothing at once. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” came the answer, vicious and with scorn, “why don’t _you_ tell me? You picked me up for conversation instead of a blowjob. So go, tell me a little about what’s going on here. It would be nice to hear _you_ talk for a change. Tell me why I’m here. Tell me why you came back. Tell me what the hell is going on. Tell me why you’re such a fucking coward who won’t just admit he totally fell for a hooker –“

“ _Fine_!” Patrick yelled, and he couldn’t keep the words contained anymore. “Fine, I have feelings for you, okay? And I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t, but fuck, here I am, the stupid John who fell for his whore. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Silence settled between them, each second an agonizing eternity.

Clearly, it was exactly what Pete had wanted to hear. Yet there was no relief on his face, no condescending smile, no sign of happiness over this defeat. Just the same sense of sadness that had been there last time.

“Go on, Pete,” Patrick whispered, “won’t you make fun of me? Won’t you act smug and victorious? Won’t you exploit me for more money?”

Pete shook his head, and sighed. “Is that what you expect from me?”

“I don’t know what to expect from you anymore,” Patrick replied quietly, and judging from the lack of an answer, Pete himself didn’t seem sure what he wanted – what either of them wanted of each other anymore.

For now, what Patrick wanted was answers. Pete may have been dressed again, but he couldn’t forget what had been under his clothes, today and every other time before. Anger jolted through Patrick at the thought, but he tried his best to remain calm.

 

“Pete, who hurt you like this?” Answers, Patrick needed answers, no matter how uncomfortable.

“No one important,” Pete scoffed. “It doesn’t matter. _They_ don’t matter. Why do you keep asking?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Patrick said through gritted teeth, “maybe because I care? Maybe because it _does_ fucking matter? Why are you so angry about this?”

“You humiliate me, don’t you get it?! I just wanted to be treated like – like always. I didn’t want some asshole’s injuries to influence how you treat me. I don’t need your pity.”

“I’m not pitying you,” Patrick said with a sigh, “and you can’t just pretend everything is alright. Pete, this is… Don’t tell me you’re _fine_.”

“Well, I’m a hooker from the street. Are you that surprised I get into trouble sometimes?” Pete sounded defensive, and unlike last time, he seemed apprehensive to tell Patrick about the details of what happened. “Other people buy my body. Other people fuck me, Patrick. If you don’t like that, stay the fuck away.”

 

“Do you like it?” Patrick asked quietly. “When your customers fuck you… Do you enjoy it?”

Pete shrugged, and let out a deep sigh. “Do you really want to know that?”

Patrick wished the answer to that was _no_. He really wished he didn’t care, really wished he hadn’t asked, and really wished he could have kept in the next question which he had held back for so long. “Did you like it… With me?”

Another shrug, and the silence that followed was suffocating. Of course Patrick knew that Pete was a hooker, that what they shared was a little outside of regular sex. But he had always tried his best to suppress that thought, and the more silent seconds passed away, the more he wished he had suppressed the stupid question as well.

“Look, Patrick,” Pete finally said cautiously, “I can appreciate whatever takes me out of my head a little, okay? An orgasm does that just fine, so I’m not complaining.”

That was only half of it, Patrick knew. He squirmed a little, tried to adjust his hat only to find nothing but his hair under his fingers. Nothing to hide before the uncomfortable truth. Stupid fucking etiquette, _and stupid fucking me for giving into Pete’s demand_.

“But ultimately, it doesn’t matter,” Pete continued in a dreary voice. “It doesn’t fucking matter how nice your cock is, or how good you are in bed. Because in the end, I was just your whore. I was here to make you happy, to appeal to your wishes and desires – it was all about _you_ , Patrick. And even if not, what difference does it make? You can try to please me and make me feel good, but you think that’s how I like it, being nothing but your hooker? You can fuck me as well as you want, you can make me come and smile at me and be all stupidly nice and shit, but… I don’t particularly enjoy not feeling equal to someone.”

It wasn’t an unexpected answer, but hearing it said out loud still made Patrick feel sick to his stomach. It destroyed whatever last shred of delusions he had hold onto, and he knew that Pete wouldn’t have told him if – fuck, if Pete didn’t know that it was over anyway.

Patrick couldn’t help but reach for Pete’s hand. Pete let him, and Patrick took his hands into his own, stroked his thumb over soft, golden skin on the back of his hand and his knuckles. Unhurt and unblemished, as Patrick noticed only now; Pete hadn’t even attempted to fight off the bastard who beat him up. It felt like a punch to Patrick’s own stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered, “I’m… I’m just so fucking sorry.”

Pete shrugged; he didn’t seem as bothered as Patrick felt. “Well. You were a client, idiot. Clearly, you don’t understand what that means for both of us. But you were a good one, and you never tried to scam me or anything. Whatever you think… I just did the job you paid me for, and that’s it. I don’t see any reason for you to feel sorry, or to apologize.”

It sounded like the truth. Not that it made Pete’s words sound any better. To Patrick, it almost felt like somehow, Pete was trying to comfort _him_.

Really, it should come as little surprise to him that Pete’s standards for basic human decency were abysmal. But Patrick had never felt guiltier before. All the lies Pete told him weren’t nearly as crushing as the fucked-up worldview that Pete considered the truth.

 

“Pete… What about HIV?” Patrick asked, and it took all his willpower to keep looking at Pete. “Are you positive?”

Pete withdrew his hands, and scoffed. “I’m surprised it took you this long to ask such an obvious question.”

“That’s not an answer.” This time, Patrick wouldn’t accept any excuses. “Answer me.”

“I can’t.” Pete shrugged again, a stubborn look in his eyes. “I don’t know if I am.”

“You _don’t know?_ ” Patrick repeated in disbelief. “How can you not know?! Pete, if you’re positive… You need, I don’t know, medication, treatment, anything! HIV isn’t an immediate death sentence anymore, but you need to catch it early, you need to act fast, you – you need to do something, _anything_. You can’t just ignore it!”

“Well, Patrick, I very much can,” Pete answered annoyed. “Why would I need to know if I’m positive? Do you think I can afford treatment? Because I fucking _can’t_ , asshole. I might as well just spare myself the hassle of getting tested, because there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.”

Part of Patrick wanted to object, and the other part of him cringed at the sickening, uncomfortable truth in these words.

“Look, I tell my customers to wear a condom, and if they’re smart, they’ll do so,” Pete continued, but the former anger had vanished from his voice, to be replaced with quiet resignation that felt even worse. “If not, if they refuse to wear a condom, if they –“ Pete broke off, and shook his head. Patrick could imagine a few ways to end this sentence, all of them involving terrifying words like _coercion, pain_ , and _rape_. “Whatever. If they don’t wear a condom and catch something off of me, not my fucking problem.”

Silence settled between them, and Pete looked away, fiddled with his hands in his lap, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You deserve better,” Patrick finally muttered. “You deserve more from life than this.”

Pete just shook his head again. “I really don’t. I had my chances, and all I did was ruin everything.”

“Is that what you want to tell yourself for the rest of your life?” Patrick asked as he tried not to wonder how long the rest of Pete’s life may be. “You’re just going to be a _hooker_ forever? You’re still going to do this when you’re in your thirties? Forties?” Patrick hesitated. “Pete… How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m as old as my clients want me to be,” Pete answered with a coquettish, well-practiced smile that made Patrick’s stomach turn.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m not jailbait, if you’re worried about that.” A humorless grin appeared on Pete’s face. “Well, I never really had the jailbait appeal, I guess. But I can pull off the cute scene twink. There’s enough of a market for that. My age doesn’t matter.” The grin vanished, and a hint of panic crept into Pete’s eyes. “And I’m still pretty. That’s what matters, doesn’t it? I’m pretty, aren’t I, Patrick? You like me, don’t you?”

“That’s beside the point.” Patrick let out a sigh as he tried to make himself clear. “Of course you look pretty. But what about everything else? What about the psychological aspect, you think you can take being a hooker on the street for much longer? Given whatever fucking pills you swallow, I don’t think so.”

“Thanks for the concern, asshole, but I can handle myself.” There was less anger in these words than Pete had probably intended. There was a spark in his eyes instead, of fear and panic, of desperation and held-back tears. “And I told you, the pills – I need them. I’m fucking crazy, as my medical record would tell you. They’d stuff me with meds and whatever the pharmacy industry has to offer no matter what. I’ll never be normal.”

“No one expects you to be normal,” Patrick said cautiously, although he wasn’t sure what registered as normal in Pete’s screwed perception of the world. “But I think you can be more in life that just… _This_. It might take work, but won’t it be worth it in the end?”

The struggle with these words was painted across Pete’s face, torn between resentment and the realization (not for the first time, Patrick guessed) that maybe, trying might be worth it. Resentment won out, as proven by Pete’s next words. “You just can’t take that I’m a hooker, right? Jealous of the other Johns who get to fuck your pretty little boy?”

“It’s not about the other Johns!” Patrick couldn’t help but yell. Pete’s stubbornness was maddening. He took a deep breath, then continued: “It’s about _everything_ , goddammit! It’s about the clients who hurt you, the clients who hit you, step over your boundaries, break the rules, _exploit_ you because they know you won’t go to the police. Not knowing if the next customer is a potential danger, if he’ll hurt you, and how badly – Pete, how can you live in this constant fear? I can’t stand seeing the bruises. It makes me _sick_ to know that they hurt you, and it’s _infuriating_ when you try to deny it. Your stubborn insistence that no one can hurt you, it’s goddamn bullshit and you know it, you just don’t want to see it. You’re a hypocrite, just like the Johns.”

There were ever harsher words and more bitter thoughts on the tip of Patrick’s tongue – words like _rape_ and _abuse_ , about illnesses and trauma and even scarier things that Patrick had little concept of. But what use was it to talk about them when Pete didn’t want to name them, refused to see any of this?

“It’s about the drugs, too,” Patrick finally continued, “who knows what the hell you’re taking, _you_ don’t even seem to know. This shit can kill you, or damage your brain, or – or – I don’t know Pete, but it can’t be good.”

 

Patrick paused, but no response came. He almost wished Pete would fight back. The silent resignation felt like a weight on his chest, the defeat etched into Pete’s face was devastating and frustrating at the same time. It meant he knew that what Patrick was saying was at least partially true; then why, _why_ wouldn’t he do anything?!

 

“Worst of all is, I can’t stand seeing you ruin your life, Pete. I can’t bear to see you devoid of any hope or happiness. I can’t watch how you ruin yourself more and more each and every day and being so fucking blind about it.”

Another pause; this time, Pete spoke up, resignation and quiet sadness replacing the anger Patrick had expected.

“I can’t stop, Patrick. I can’t just stop and go live in a fairytale world where you’re the white knight rescuing me. I’m not a poor prince, I’m a hooker. I’m not an innocent little boy who was forced into sex work. I was a shitty person who had their choices, and I made all the wrong ones.”

With a deep breath, Patrick shook his head. “I don’t want to rescue you. I don’t want you to be just _mine_ , like some trophy. And this isn’t about me. I want you to take some damn responsibility for yourself.”

“What for?” Pete asked solemnly. “The world is better off without me. It would be more responsible of me to just vanish, and leave everyone alone and unburdened of my existence. All I did so far was to make everyone’s life just a little bit more miserable.”

“What about your friend?” Patrick mumbled, “what about Brendon? Do you just want to leave him alone?”

“Brendon isn’t my friend, and he’s much better off without me.” Pete let out a vicious laugh. “All I did was lie to him, give him a sense of false security and loads of promises I couldn’t keep. As you may have noticed, I’m pretty good at that.” Another vicious laugh, more of an ugly, terrifying bark than anything else. “Brendon will stay the fuck away from me, and if you were smart, so would you.”

“Is that what you want from me?” Patrick asked with an edge of panic to it. Never had he hoped more that Pete would be lying. “I think I made it pretty clear what I want from you, Pete. But what do _you_ want from me? Why did you sleep with me like that last time?” Patrick couldn’t hold back the question, and couldn’t hold back the despair raging in his heart. “Why did you kiss me like that? Why did you do those things like they _meant_ something?”

 

The silence that followed was unbearable. Patrick kept staring at the hooker, hoping for answers, wishing Pete would look at him. He didn’t.

 

“It was a mistake,” Pete finally said. “It was a mistake, okay?”

“A mistake?” Patrick repeated in a broken voice. “Pete, that’s not… Don’t fucking lie to me. I know you well enough to recognize that whatever you did wasn’t just your hooker spiel. You feel something for me. Whatever it is, just admit it, damnit!”

“ _So what_ if I feel something for you?” Pete retorted angrily. “I told you, it’s a mistake, and I regret it. All of this is a mistake, I never should have – it was wrong.”

“That’s what I am to you then?” Patrick’s throat felt tight, and breathing had never been harder. “A _mistake_ to regret?”

“Funny, isn’t it,” Pete remarked quietly, “that’s usually the way people describe _me_.”

Patrick took a deep breath, and tried to sort his thoughts. “You’re not a mistake. I’m not saying I always did the right things, and I do regret a lot of what I did, Pete, but never… never _you_.”

“I like you, Patrick,” Pete whispered as he stood up, “and that’s why I regret what I did, and that’s why I’m doing the right thing for once, and telling you to stay the hell away from me. I want you to be happy, and I know that I can never be the one to make that happen. It was selfish to believe otherwise.”

“Wait,” Patrick said as he too stood up. “You can’t just… Is that all, Pete? Don’t you want – are you just going to walk away? Aren’t you willing to give yourself a chance? Would you rather have your stupid pride kill you than let me help you?”

Without much thought, Patrick reached out for Pete, wanting to touch, wanting to hold, wanting to convey just how much he wished Pete would understand. But for the second time ever, Pete harshly shoved him away. Not with anger like the last time, but with fear; not for physical harm, but emotional damage.

 

“I said I want you to stay away.” It sounded almost believable, if only Patrick hadn’t heard every shade of lying in Pete’s voice. And never had a lie hurt more than this one.

“Is that all?” Patrick asked quietly, as coldness spread in his chest, making every heartbeat feel more painful than the one before.

Pete lowered his head, arms behind his back now, and for one last time, that stupid smirk was back on his lips. “Well, sweet Patrick… Do I get a goodbye kiss?”

All Patrick did was shake his head.

“I want to kiss _you_ , Pete,” he finally said, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “But I’m never going to kiss a _hooker_.”

The smile vanished from Pete’s face, replaced by a frown and something that looked like tears in his eyes, before he turned his head.

“Don’t come back to me.” Pete’s voice was remarkably stern, though he still didn’t meet his client’s eyes. “Just… Stay away from my street.”

He reached for his bag, and Patrick shook his head. “Keep the money.”

“I’m a _whore_ , dumbass,” Pete hissed, “you paid me for fucking. We didn’t do that, so you can have your money back. My clients can pay me to suck them off, but they can’t pay me to talk. Don’t you ever fucking think you can buy me like this.” With that, he threw the cash on the floor, and Patrick hated himself even more.

 

Was this how everything would end? Panic flooded Patrick as Pete took a step back. No. No, it couldn’t be. Pete couldn’t just go and leave. This couldn’t be the end of them, this couldn’t have been how their last encounter went. How could Patrick have failed so much, how had he not been able to convince Pete to give up on a life he hated so much? How, how, _and now he’s leaving, no, I can’t let him just go like that_ –

 

“Please, Pete,” Patrick heard himself say, “please, don’t go. Please, whatever it takes, just… _stay_.”

Patrick felt a gentle hand on his cheek, a soft finger brushing over wet skin.  

“Don’t worry. You’ll forget me,” Pete said with a sad smile, “just like everyone else will.”

 

Patrick didn’t move, just watched as Pete left the living room, backpack over his shoulders, soon out of his view and already out of his reach.

 

A few seconds later, the door fell shut behind him, and Patrick knew the hooker was gone from his life forever.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like it? Hate it? Hate _me_? Please leave a comment to let me know!
> 
>  
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr and if you like the story, please reblog the art, it would mean a lot!


	12. Home Is A Question Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again! and with art, too. I hope you're all enjoying the visuals!
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for Beta reading and being engouraging as always!  
> And I'll keep using Morrissey songs as titles until I run out of them.

 

 

 

The days went by in a blur, blending seamlessly into one another.

Patrick tried to bury himself in work. That had always helped against the loneliness. Music was the one last thing in his life he could still hold on to. The last sanctuary of blissful silence in his head when music flooded his ears, the last sense of control when he sat down in front of his sound board, the last bit of satisfaction when hard labor resulted in a finished product he could take pride in.

But as soon as he left, when the lights were out and everything was silent, when he heard the techs or the band or session musicians or whomever else happened to be around him – Patrick didn’t care, didn’t want to care, all that mattered was that there was someone around, something to do, _anything_ to pass time –  when they left, the silence that followed felt like a crushing weight.

He had tried to drown his sorrows in alcohol, way too much of it at once, which had only ended miserably. Patrick believed he could handle himself, but usually, whenever he had a drink (or two, or three), it was never the goal to get blackout drunk, or drunk at all. Just to get to a certain level, to the point of being comfortable. He was sure there was a word for that, one he was too afraid to even look up because it made everything too real.

After one of the worst hangovers Patrick had ever had, which to his utter misery he had had to spend at the studio, he decided it was for the best to just give drinking up forever. He had seen enough of his dark side just lurking in the shadow of his mind already, and it wasn’t a place he wanted to explore any further. Hookers, mind games and alcohol, all the very worst of him and Patrick wanted it gone forever, neatly carved out of his mind and replaced with something better.

Patrick had tried not to think about this reasoning, but he also hadn’t bought a new bottle of whiskey, sure that somewhere, a sad stranger would have silently approved.

Not that this solved his problems.

All that waited for Patrick now was a home that felt emptier than ever before, an apartment he resented more than ever in a city he grew to hate, because a well-known hooker walked its cold streets tonight.

The silent darkness when he opened the door didn’t come as a surprise. Of course, Pete wasn’t here. He would never be in Patrick’s apartment again, he was out of his life forever. Pete had decided against him, and Patrick had to accept that. Patrick had offered him the option to stay, Patrick had wanted to help, and Pete had made it abundantly clear he wanted none of that. Or even worse; deep down, parts of Pete may have wanted it, he just couldn’t allow himself to let these parts win.

Of course, in the end, everything Patrick had to offer had been in vain – everything aside from his money had been worthless. It had been foolish to believe otherwise, he had known that from the start, but having that tiny bit of hope he had held on to for so long finally shattered was still so fucking painful. That brief moment of doubt in Pete’s eyes, the shadow that had hushed over his face, the tiny little glimmer of hope that even the hooker couldn’t suppress – ah, that had been much more painful to see than just flat out refusal. There _was_ hope in Pete, there _was_ a will for a better life, there _was_ resistance and a part of him that wanted to believe Patrick.

Only, Patrick had failed to convince him. In the end, he didn’t win against Pete’s delusions and the comfort of the drugs; in the end, Pete surrendered to himself.

In the end, all Patrick had was nothing. But that _nothing_ was a constant heavy weight on his chest.

 

It took more than a week until Patrick got over the worst of it. That morning, he looked into the mirror with disdain; sure, he never had much facial hair, but a few too many days without a proper shave let even him look terrible. Unkempt hair, bloodshot eyes, skin even more sickly-pale than usual, he looked like a complete mess. Patrick sighed as he tried to remember what day it was, and tried to remind himself that he couldn’t afford to mope around anyway. There was work to do, and Patrick decided that maybe, he should spend a little bit of effort on his appearance today. Not that anyone usually cared much, but maybe, showing up to work like a hot mess with the same baseball cap he had worn for god knows how long (and which had started to smell borderline disgusting) wasn’t the smartest move.

And sure, Patrick knew he was damn good at what he did, but there were dozens, if not hundreds of people just waiting for him to fuck up so they could take his place. If he lost his work, if word got around that he was a mess inside and outside and couldn’t deliver what was expected of him anymore, if he lost the studio too much money, he’d be shown the door in no time. And Patrick had to admit he hadn’t exactly thought about a safe plan B to fall back on.

A shower, a shave, and fresh clothes (from his wardrobe instead of picked up from the floor, which Patrick considered to be a big step up) would have to do. There was nothing to be done about his slightly too-long hair for now, so with another sigh, Patrick decided that wearing his favorite hat would have to be enough to fake his self-esteem.

Patrick went to his hallway, eyes scanning the spot where he usually tossed his hats. Nothing. Irritated, he went back to his bedroom, but couldn’t find the desired hat either. It was ridiculous, and Patrick had more than enough hats, for sure, but it irked him that his favorite one was missing. No way he could have lost it. When was the last time he had been wearing anything besides the ratty baseball cap?

Oh. _Right_. When Pete had been here the last time.

Yes, Patrick remembered – he had put on his favorite hat each time he had unsuccessfully looked for the hooker, and had worn it too when he finally picked Pete up for the last time. He remembered taking it off after Pete’s snide comment, remembered putting it away. But again, another search through his wardrobe in the hallway proved as fruitless as the first one. No hat.

Now this was just stupid. It had to be there somewhere. As Patrick angrily eyed the wardrobe, realization hit him. Something else was missing: That one hoodie he had loaned to Pete, the one he had meant to toss in the laundry (or better, just into the garbage) because it had smelled like cigarettes and bad memories, because the ghost of Pete stuck to every fiber of the worn-out fabric.

A nauseous feeling poured into Patrick’s stomach. Was he imagining things? But there was no way these things could have gone missing, he hadn’t so much as looked at them ever since the last time Pete had been over. No one else had entered his apartment since then. They definitely didn’t vanish into thin air.

But he hadn’t accompanied Pete to the door like usual. So, plenty of opportunity to steal both items.

Patrick shook his head. That was just ridiculous, wasn’t it? These objects were worthless. And hadn’t Pete refused the cash that Patrick had offered for him to keep? It didn’t make sense. It just didn’t make sense.

 _I only steal from clients who owe me something,_ Patrick remembered him saying. _But you never gave me any reason to, right?_

No, Patrick couldn’t remember giving Pete any reason to do so. _And I sure as hell don’t owe him anything._

Then again, it wasn’t like Pete’s decisions were entirely grounded in logic or rational reasoning. Maybe, there was a deeper meaning behind it. Or maybe, Pete just wanted to make fun of him, wanted to mock him one last time, make sure that Patrick was left with the maximum of frustration. Show him he held Patrick’s thoughts captive even after they had parted ways. It left a nagging sensation at the back of Patrick’s mind as he finally settled on a different hat, grabbed his keys, and left for work.

The nagging thoughts didn’t go away either. Just as Patrick had begun to get over him, the goddamn hooker had found yet another way to worm himself into Patrick’s mind. It wasn’t so much what he had stolen, a hoodie and a hat were easily replaceable, it was more that Pete had stolen from him at all in the first place. Suddenly, all kinds of emotions flooded back into Patrick’s barely-healed heart: Anger and frustration, irritation and annoyance, and worst of all, a glimmer of desperate hope that maybe, just maybe –

At the end of the day, Patrick decided he was done with it. He was sick and tired of these mind games, and he wouldn’t allow the hooker to have that much power over him even though whatever had been between them was over.

Patrick was done.

That’s why he found himself driving down the well-known street once more, with gritted teeth and white knuckles as he clutched the steering wheel. He would confront Pete one last time, tell the hooker to fuck off forever, and probably have his heart broken again when Pete would just laugh at him, ugly and mockingly, for being this stupid.

He parked his car in front of Pete’s usual spot, with the usual bit of hope secretly tucked into the depths of his heart.

No one was there. Patrick hesitated, considered waiting; but who knew when and if the hooker would come back. Just as Patrick decided it wasn’t worth waiting, and he could come back tomorrow, he heard someone shouting.

_Pete._

Everything in Patrick tensed up. His common sense told him to drive off, begged him to just leave. There was more yelling outside, angry and vicious, and Patrick knew the smart thing would be to get the hell away from a dark alleyway with a hooker in trouble.

Instead, Patrick got out of the car.

 

 

 

The days disappeared into a drain, and the nights were a suffocating blanket.

Pete had lost track of time; really, what did it matter anymore? Why did _anything_ matter, even? He was sleepwalking through the nights, and passed out during daytime. There was meaningless conversation with his clients, kept to a minimum, and Pete only opened his mouth to perform what he was paid to do, and to swallow whatever was at the tip of his tongue – someone’s cock, an uncomfortable truth, another pill, and then another, and just one more.

He kept telling himself that what he had done was for the best. He had nothing to offer to Patrick, aside from misery. If he liked Patrick, surely, the only right thing to do would be to let him go, wouldn’t it?

Yes, yes, Patrick was a mistake. Doing _anything_ with Patrick had been a mistake, and it was true, Pete felt sorry for it. Sorry for ruining yet another person, sorry for yet another false promise, and deep down, sorry that even when he had tried to sleep with Patrick for real, it had been nothing but a pleasant yet passing illusion. He was just so fucking sorry, but what use was that to anyone?

Yes, yes, there was no denying that he liked Patrick, more than he should, and that’s why refusing him had been the only sensible decision. Liking him meant having to give up on him.

But the evidence of his lies crept up on him, clung to him like stains he couldn’t wash off. The bruises faded, but the more they disappeared, the more of the ugly truth they had displayed etched itself into Pete’s brain.

The loneliness, it hurt like never before. The aching desire for someone, for Patrick, it pained him so much. The nagging thoughts at the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, there had been a chance, one that he had wasted just like all the other chances before – it was unnerving, undeniable, and unavoidable no matter how much Pete tried to drown out his thoughts with whatever method available.

That fucking promise of a chance, the glimpse of a life Pete had given up, that brief spark of hope as his heart begged to just give in, just let Patrick hold him tight and whisper that everything would be okay, that there was a better life waiting for Pete, for them, for everyone…

With a harsh sigh, Pete let his fist hit the wall behind him. Another anonymous night, another round of waiting for a John to come pick him up, and briefly distract him from all these pointless thoughts.

Now, Pete didn’t even have the kid to keep him company anymore. Pete suspected that the fucking asshole who beat him up had given Brendon a nice reminder to stay away, too. The less he thought about what form this reminder had taken, the better.

Pete tried to tell himself it was better that way, that he couldn’t help the kid anyway, that there was nothing he could do. The world was a shitty place, and well, wasn’t that what Pete had always suspected? Hadn’t he once wanted to not take responsibility, to look away, to pretend? What could someone like him do, anyway? Nothing, right?

Pete’s fist hit the brick wall behind him a second time, as the obvious lies in these thoughts crept up on him, tightened his chest. Helpless, so fucking helpless, and instead of the relief of indifference, all Pete could feel was pure anger, like venom in his veins.

It was cold tonight, as Pete couldn’t help but notice. His mind was a little too clear, the peaceful fog of pharmacy not present. He still hadn’t recovered financially from the days he had to take off, and his increase in pills after the whole fiasco with Patrick hadn’t helped. Pete wished he hadn’t been so goddamn proud, and had just taken Patrick’s money. Ethics were for other people, not poor hookers from the streets. Since when did he care?

 _Ever since Patrick became so much more_ , his mind supplied unhelpfully. For the third time, Pete’s fist hit the cold stones, he could feel sharp, delicious burn as they scraped over delicate skin and left pleasant pain.

Patrick was gone. It was for the better _. It was the best thing I’ve done in a while._ _I protected him, unlike Brendon. Patrick is safe. Patrick is safe. Patrick is safe._

_Patrick won’t come back._

There was undeniable evidence against these illusions, Pete knew – there was a crumpled hat at the bottom of his bag, and a hoodie that didn’t belong to him back at his place, next to his bed, ready to be worn again whenever Pete felt like the world was crashing down.

It was pointless, Pete knew. It was just two dumb trinkets, it was nothing of value and, probably, nothing that Patrick would even miss. Or cared to get back. It was pathetic, a foolish spark of hope, that maybe, just maybe –

 

Before Pete could indulge in these wishful thoughts he pretended he didn’t have, someone approached him. Two people, and Pete’s heart sank when he recognized both of them – Brendon, being dragged over by the sadly too-familiar face of the stranger he was living with.

Instinctively, Pete took a step back, could feel the cold stones pressing against his shoulders. Why the fuck did the guy come back? Whatever reason he had, it surely wasn’t to apologize, or have a nice chit-chat.

There was still time to run, but where to? What for? The guy knew Pete would return another night anyway, this was his work space after all.

Might as well just get this over with.

Before Pete knew, he found himself in the same dark alleyway just a few steps away, pressed against the same cold stone wall as the last time, a hand fisting into his shirt and angry eyes staring at him.

“Brendon keeps talking about you,” the guy hissed. “Tell me, why does Brendon keep talking about some whore? Why does he keep caring? Haven’t I told you to stay away from him?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Pete said through gritted teeth. The way this guy treated him like a disobedient child in front of Brendon was humiliating. It became clear he was here to teach Brendon a lesson – of obedience, of stupidity, of being a goddamn coward, with Pete as the best example.

Wasn’t it just so much easier to give in? Wasn’t that what he told Patrick? Wasn’t it for the best of everyone?

“He didn’t do anything,” Brendon repeated in a small voice. “Please, I promise –“

“Shut up,” came the interruption. “I’m talking to your hooker friend here.”

There were more meaningless words, insults and accusations that were lost on Pete as he realized something with devastating clarity.

If he stayed silent now, the man would break him – no, would break _Brendon_ as well. It would scar the kid forever, and Pete’s chest ached at the thought of the kid being hurt, being scared, being taught that he was worthless, just a pretty toy to discard as soon as it didn’t please its owner anymore. The kid would just believe everything Pete had believed so far, but suddenly, as Pete found himself all alone in a dark alleyway with the boy in tears and some fucking wannabe pimp about to beat him up, it all came crashing down.

He remembered how Patrick had called him a hypocrite, and right now, Pete couldn’t help but agree.

This bastard, together with all of these goddamn Johns who hurt the kid, oh, and everyone who had ever hurt _him_ – right here, right now, pressed against a wall with a harsh hand pressing against his chest, Pete couldn’t find the usual excuses in him anymore.

 

Deep down, Pete felt something inside of him snap.

 

He felt his fingers curling into fists, nails digging into his palms, ready for regrets.

 

Everything was just white noise. Brendon must have said something – begged for mercy, pleaded for Pete’s well-being – because the guy turned his head, momentarily distracted. This brief moment of inattentiveness was all Pete needed.

There was his fist, and there was soft skin and a grunt as his knuckles hit their target, hard, fast, and ruthless, for the first time, then a second, then a third, then Pete lost track.

A punch for every time this bastard had hit Brendon, eye for an eye, bruise for bruise, each bit of pain paid back in more punches, in kicking and screaming and more, more, _more_. There was yelling, loud voices, blurry movements and flailing limbs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Pete registered pain as the man tried to defend himself, but adrenaline and anger easily overshadowed any pain his resistance caused.

 

Another punch, another fist connecting with bruised skin, Pete was just so _angry_.

 

It was payback for every time someone hurt him, every rough handling and outright violence against him, every time his bastard customers deemed him unworthy of being treated like a human.

The screaming didn’t stop, but Pete didn’t notice it was his own voice he was hearing. There was just anger, so much _anger_ , Pete was done with letting himself get treated like shit, he was done, so done with everything and –

Someone was calling his name, and someone tried to stop him from throwing more punches. On instinct, Pete fought back. His elbow hit someone, hard, and that someone let out a groan and a curse as they staggered backwards. Pete snarled as he turned around, ready to lash out against whoever dared to stand in his way. He was ready for violence, ready to beat up everyone who dared to hurt him, dared to hurt Brendon, dared to –

“Goddamn it, Pete, _fuck!_ ” A familiar voice hissed as a familiar body stumbled against the cold brick wall. “I’m just – you don’t need to – I’m just here to help, I promise!”

Reality settled back in his brain as he stared at the man in front of him. Blond hair and blue eyes with a pleading look that matched his voice, “please, Pete, calm down, it’s fine, everything will be fine…!”

Pete felt his will to fight vanish; instead he felt a small smile and the tiniest bit of hope and relief for the first time in a long, long while.

“Patrick,” he whispered, “Patrick – I knew you would be back.”

 

 

 

Patrick couldn’t deny he felt a little overwhelmed.

He had prepared for a lot, but not for… _this_. There was someone on the ground, passed out, there was blood on Pete’s fists and face and shirt, and Patrick didn’t know to whom it belonged. There was Brendon, staring at them with huge, scared eyes. And there was Pete, who had finally stopped yelling, who just looked so lost, whose smile looked nothing like the usual smirk; Pete, who Patrick had missed so much, Pete, Pete –

Before Patrick had a chance to put his hands down, the kid had stumbled over to him, and pushed him back. The boy looked terrified, and he was trembling, but he was determined.

“Don’t hurt him!” The kid stuttered out. “Stay away – don’t hurt Pete!”

Anger overcame Patrick for a second. He was here to help, goddammit. But he bit back his snarky reply; he still had no idea what even happened here, and maybe, Brendon’s distrust was justified.

“It’s okay,” Pete thankfully intervened. “Don’t worry, kiddo. It’s just Patrick. He’s… He won’t hurt anyone.”

“I’m here to help,” Patrick repeated, even though that hadn’t been his initial plan, and even though it looked like he may have been a little too late for help. “What the hell happened here?!”

The guy on the ground, though still not moving, let out a groan.

Next Patrick knew was that Pete grabbed him by the arm, and shoved him towards the street. “We need to get the hell away,” Pete blurted out before Patrick had a chance to say how much he didn’t appreciate being shoved around. “You too, Brendon. Don’t just stand there!”

With that, Pete dragged Brendon with him, out of the alleyway, away from whoever the hell was still lying there on the cold floor, all beaten up. An uneasy feeling settled in Patrick’s stomach. What had happened that Pete snapped so much?

The smartest thing would be to get in his car, _alone_ , call the ambulance and the police, and just leave all this mess behind. Patrick hadn’t asked for any of this. Every part of his rational brain told him to just go.

Instead, he turned towards Pete. “Get in the car,” Patrick heard himself say despite all better knowledge. “You said we need to go, so let’s go.” He wasn’t sure if the police would show up, and arrest them all; or maybe, the guy had friends just aching to beat up two scared hookers and a tiny, pudgy guy. It was a miracle that Pete had beaten up anyone, and given the blood and whatever injuries Patrick hadn’t seen yet, Pete had barely been successful.

There was no time to object. Pete just did as he was told, dragging Brendon with him. For the first time, the hooker took the backseat, and Patrick was left alone in the front, unsure of what to do. He eyed Pete’s dirty shirt, and the kid who looked like he was five seconds away from a panic attack.

“Pete, do you need a doctor? Should we go to the hospital -?”

“No,” Pete hissed, “no, no doctors or hospitals or anything. I’m fine.”

“Are you fucking –“ Patrick interrupted himself, and decided it was not the time or place for discussion. “Okay, _fine._ What now?”

“ _Drive_ , dumbass,” Pete answered, “just drive, let’s get the hell away from here.”

“You owe me an explanation. And it better be a good one.” With that, Patrick started the engine, and as they left the suspicious part of town behind, Patrick realized he had no idea where he was supposed to go. Back to his place? Back to Pete’s? He had no idea where Pete lived though. What about the kid? Patrick looked in the mirror, saw the two hookers huddled up together as Pete mumbled something into Bredon’s ear. Whatever it was, it seemed to calm him down. It was a relief because Patrick had no clue how to deal with a teenager about to panic, especially when he was bordering on panic himself.

 

“Where do we go?” Patrick asked quietly, and bit his lip. _No safe place to go_ , he heard Pete say in his memories, _no place to go at all_.

“Just drive to your place.” Brendon’s eyes widened at that, but whatever Pete whispered into his ear was enough to drown out any protest.

“Who the hell was that man you beat up, Pete?” Patrick kept his eyes fixed on the street, but he was not willing to accept just silence as an answer.

Thankfully, Pete was smart enough to pick up on that. “It was the guy Brendon’s living with,” he mumbled.

“ _The guy Brendon is living with_ ,” Patrick repeated incredulously. That seemed like the sugarcoated version of the truth. “So, a pimp?”

“No!” Came from the kid, while a “kinda, yeah” and a shrug was the answer from Pete.

“No, that’s not true,” Brendon repeated, “he’s not… That’s not it.”

Pete sent Patrick a look that made it clear he believed the kid to be lying. It earned him a weak elbow to the side from the boy, together with a mumbled “fuck off, Pete, what do you know?” while Patrick just shook his head. Great, just great, as if there wasn’t enough of a mess already.

Focus, he needed to focus, and he pushed aside the interpersonal relationships of potential minors who prostituted themselves away for now. What haunted Patrick’s mind was how the guy had looked – sure, he may have deserved to be beaten up, and Patrick had little sympathy for the man, but if he died out there, that would just make everything ten times more complicated. Patrick pulled over, and stopped the car.

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

“What?” Pete let go of Brendon, and leaned forward. “Are you _crazy_? You can’t call an ambulance. What if he goes to the police? Who gives a shit about that bastard anyway?!”

“What are the options?!” Patrick countered angrily. “The guy could go to the police anyway. But do you think he will? What’s he gonna tell them, he got lost and just ended up on a street full of illegal hookers, one of which just happened to live with him? I doubt it. But if he fucking _dies_ out there, the police _will_ investigate no matter what.”

“So that’s my best bet? Hoping the guy keeps his mouth shut?” Pete asked incredulously. “Yeah, that’s a foolproof plan.”

“Well, _maybe_ you should have thought about this _before you beat him unconscious_!” Patrick yelled in frustration, and slammed his hand on the sterring wheel.

 

Pete fell quiet, and leaned back into his seat. The silence was only interrupted by Brendon’s sob.

“It’s my fault,” the boy whispered, voice broken by another sob. “It’s all my fault… If only I hadn’t… I’m so sorry, Pete…”

“Don’t be, idiot,” Pete mumbled as he dragged the boy closer to him. “It’s not your fault.”

More words followed, which Patrick didn’t hear. He got out of the car, got his cell phone out, and shoved aside any sense of self-pity and doubt. He needed a clear head now, and aside from that, he needed all the damn luck he could get. The part of his brain that was still capable of rational thoughts reminded him of the two illegal prostitutes in the back of his car, how some of the other hookers on the street most likely noticed the screaming, and probably knew Patrick’s car and license plate from the countless other times he’s been there. It was too late to back out anyway.

Afterwards, Patrick got back in the car, surprisingly calm. It was no use freaking out; most things were out of his control anyway, and all he could do was lean back and wait, and try to care for Pete and Brendon as best as he could.

Maybe he was starting to lose his mind.

They drove mostly in silence. Once in a while, Pete whispered something to Brendon, who seemed to have calmed down as much as the situation allowed. Patrick didn’t want to think about why Pete knew how to deal with this situation in the first place, where and why he had gathered experience with fear and panic.

 

Once they arrived at his apartment, Pete silently got out of the car, slung his arm around Brendon as they went up the stairs. Thankfully, none of the other good citizens inhabiting the house bothered them, and Patrick had rarely felt more relieved to get into his apartment.

That feeling soon got replaced by awkwardness and insecurity. Pete stood in his hallway, and for the first time ever, it wasn’t because Patrick had paid him money to be here. Brendon was still leaning against him, eyes wide and mouth trembling as he pressed closer to Pete. Patrick swallowed; the kid didn’t know him, and who knew what the boy expected him to do. Probably all kinds of bad things Patrick didn’t even want to think about.

“You two can take the bedroom,” Patrick mumbled, “and, uhm. Are you injured? Maybe I… We should make sure to treat any wounds.”

The boy shook his head. “I’m okay,” he whispered, and Patrick figured everyone had their own ways of lying. “I just… What do you want me to do?”

Patrick furrowed his brows. “Excuse me?”

Pete looked like he wanted to speak up, but Brendon just kept talking. “What do you want me to do, _sir_ ,” he repeated, and that wasn’t what Patrick had meant at all.

“N-nothing,” Patrick stuttered. “I didn’t – that’s not why I helped you.”

“Brendon, it’s not –“ Pete got interrupted again when Brendon took a step forward and shook his head, clearly not believing him.

“Don’t make Pete do it,” the kid said quietly, in a way that made Patrick’s stomach turn. “I got us into trouble, it’s all my fault, and whatever you want… Blowjob, sex, whatever. I’ll do it. Just don’t make Pete do it, he doesn’t deserve to be hurt because of me. I can’t… I’m not letting this happen again.”

Pete looked as stunned as Patrick felt. The honesty in Brendon’s voice made it clear he was being serious, and Patrick felt sick.

“I don’t want anything from anyone,” Patrick finally managed to say. “I said I came to help. And I’m not… Jesus, I’m not going to solicit sex from you. No, I don’t expect _anyone_ to blow me. Neither you, nor Pete. Okay? This isn’t… It’s not a business transaction. I’m just trying to help.”

That didn’t seem to convince Brendon at all, and Patrick felt even more sick at the thought at how often the boy had heard a dozen variation of these words, all nothing but lies.

“How old are you, anyway?” Patrick couldn’t help but ask.

Brendon lowered his head, and gave a well-practiced little smile. “I’m as old as my clients want me to be.”

 _The same phrase Pete had used_ , Patrick couldn’t help but notice. Pete grinned, but Patrick couldn’t see anything comical in the situation.

“This is not a joke,” Patrick said with all the authority he could muster. “And I’m not one of your clients, do you get that? You’re not here as a hooker. So, you’re going to give me a real answer.”

Brendon’s smile faltered. “I turned 18 this year,” Brendon mumbled, as if this was some sort of shameful information. “I know it’s not cute little jailbait anymore, but…  I still _look_ the part. You can pretend.”

All Patrick could do was shake his head. “I’m not going to pretend anything,” he said in reply, “and neither will you.”

The words coming out of the kid’s mouth were sickening. Patrick was sure that whatever sort of man Brendon had been living with had played his part in this screwed self-perception, but he thought back to some of Pete’s words, to his refusal to admit his age – one that clearly was way above 18 – and his desperate need to have his good looks be reassured. He didn’t want to know what awful comments both of them had heard, didn’t want to think about why Pete insisted on stupid eyeliner and ridiculous clothes, didn’t want to picture some gross old man shoving cash into Brendon’s hand because he genuinely believed the hooker was young enough to be even more of a forbidden pleasure.

“It’s okay, kiddo.” Pete took Brendon’s hand into his own, a small but reassuring smile on his lips. “Patrick’s a good guy. He won’t do anything bad.”

It still didn’t look like Brendon trusted him, but he trusted _Pete_ , so much to Patrick’s relief, the kid didn’t repeat the offer. Instead, he just sagged against Pete’s body, looking drained and tired. “Can we go to bed?” Brendon whispered, and none of the false confidence or liveliness swung in his voice anymore. “Please, Pete, I’m just… I’m tired, and I want to stop thinking for a while. Please.”

“Pete, you’re still… Let me treat your wounds at least,” Patrick said helplessly; he hoped that bruised knuckles were all there was to treat. “You need to wash those, and… Let me get you a new shirt.”

“’s okay,” Pete mumbled, “I’ll just clean it up. It’s not that bad.” He headed towards the bathroom, followed by Brendon, while Patrick went into his bedroom to pick a new shirt. Everything he owned would be too big on Pete, he realized with a shudder, despite the fact that Pete was a few inches taller. He settled for another hoodie because it was warmer than whatever Pete had been wearing, and grabbed a blanket and a pillow. Those were thrown on the couch in the living room, then Patrick went back into the bathroom.

“Here,” he said as he handed the hoodie to Pete, “you can keep this one, too.”

“Too?” Brendon asked slightly confused, only to get no answer. Pete stayed silent, just exchanged his shirt for the hoodie once he was done washing himself, and then took Brendon’s hand into his own again.

“Bedroom’s all yours,” Patrick repeated nervously, “I’ll take the couch.”

A short nod, then both hookers were out of the bathroom, and then, Patrick heard a door fall shut. He leaned over the sink, tried not to panic as the weight of their situation settled on his shoulders. Two illegal hookers and a beat-up John, blood stains in his sink and god knows what bundles of emotional damage sleeping in his bed.

Eventually, Patrick fought of the dawn of panic, and decided to at least try to sleep a little. He shrugged off his pants, and just as he sat down on the couch, the door of the bedroom opened.

 

“The kid’s asleep,” Pete mumbled as he closed the door behind him. “Cried until he passed out.”

How often had Pete been in his living room? On the couch, kneeling on the floor, pressed against a wall? But today, everything was off.

“Can I take a shower?” Pete asked quietly. “I wanted Brendon to calm down first… I just feel gross.”

“Sure,” Patrick mumbled in response. “A shower, a bath, whatever you want.”

“A bath?” Pete seemed to contemplate the offer. One Patrick had never made before, given that the hooker had always been here for a limited time, which Patrick had longed to fill with different activities. “Well, if you let me…?”

“Sure. Do you want me to lend you some clothes?” Patrick thought back to the blood on Pete’s shirt, and tried not to wonder how clean exactly his pants were. “I could wash yours, if you want.”

“Just some underwear maybe. Did you mean it when you said I can keep the hoodie?”

Patrick nodded, and Pete let out a short, ugly laugh. “Okay then. You don’t need to wash my clothes – honestly, you can set the shirt on fire.”

“I’ll throw it away if you want?” Patrick offered weakly, sighed when he got a shrug in response. He hurried to the bedroom, careful not to wake up the sleeping stranger in his bed. He grabbed the next best pair of underwear, and headed back to the bathroom, where he already heard the muffled sound of running water.

A weird feeling overcame Patrick. He had seen Pete naked countless times, knew every inch of his body, a naked Pete had casually strolled through his apartment or laid in his bed on so many occasions.

But watching Pete undress for a bath – ah, come to think of it, Patrick had never once taken the opportunity to take a shower or bath with the hooker, and he almost felt sad about missing out –  seeing him tremble slightly from the coldness, the cautious look as he dipped a finger into the water to test the temperature… It was mundane, nothing like the obscene things Patrick had seen him do – _made_ him do – yet it felt like an intrusion. This wasn’t a hooker giving him a show. Just a normal person, one who deserved some privacy.

“I’ll leave you to yourself,” Patrick mumbled quietly when Pete had lowered himself into the water. He was held back by a hand grabbing his arm, and a look from Pete that looked more pleading than all the false begging in the bedroom.

“Stay,” Pete whispered, with a desperation that made Patrick’s stomach turn. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Patrick sat down on the edge of the bathtub, awkwardly staring at his hands in his lap.

 

“Haven’t had a bath in a while.” Pete’s voice sounded thoughtful, more like he was talking to himself, but he was clearly intending for Patrick to listen. “’s just showers usually, I don’t have a bathtub back at my place, and the last times I ended up in one… it was not to get clean, y’know.”

Pete scoffed, and Patrick dared to turn around a little, just so the he could look Pete in the eye. Staring seemed wrong, but so did looking away.

“That guy today… Brendon’s pimp, or whatever you want to call it,” Patrick started nervously, “was he the one who beat you up the last time?”

“Yes.” Pete shrugged, as if getting beaten up by ominous men was just a regular occurrence.

“Why did you fight back today?” Patrick asked, thinking back to Pete’s unbruised knuckles last time, to his offer of violence forced upon his body as if it was just another thing for sale.

“He brought the kid along this time.” There was something dark in Pete’s voice; he sounded furious. “When it was just me, that’s… I can deal with that. It doesn’t matter if he wants to hurt me. I thought it would be easiest to just take it. But then he brought Brendon along, wanted him to watch, and I couldn’t –“ Pete made an angry gesture with his hand, which caused water to splash everywhere. “I couldn’t be the cause of yet another ruined life, Patrick. I couldn’t let him use me to teach the kid to just accept his fate. I just got so fucking _angry_.”

“I saw that,” Patrick said weakly.

“I thought I could save the kid.” Pete sighed, and drew his knees to his chest.

“You did,” Patrick reassured him.

“I _didn’t_ ,” Pete said viciously. “I just made everything worse, Patrick, don’t you get it? I ruined _everything_ for both of us!” Another angry hand gesture, hands balled into fists, more water droplets splashing everywhere. “The kid is fucking homeless now, he has nowhere to live! Shit, and he can’t go back to work either, because that bastard could come back, and he’s not gonna be any friendlier next time. Hell, and _I_ can’t go back either, because I might be stupid, but I’m not so entirely out of my mind that I’d risk showing my face there anytime soon. I can’t go back, _we_ can’t go back, Patrick, I don’t know what to do!”

The anger lingered for a little longer, before Pete slumped forwards, and buried his face in his hands. They stayed quiet for a while, until Patrick thought it safe to risk gently laying his hand on Pete’s shoulder. Pete stayed silent, just angrily wiped over his eyes, which caused what little of his make-up had remained to be smeared down his cheeks.

“We can figure something out together,” Patrick said cautiously.

“Yeah,” Pete scoffed, “that is, if I haven’t ruined your life either. I’m sorry, Patrick, I never meant to – this wasn’t how I wanted it, okay? I wanted you to be safe, away from me.”

“Well, too late for that.” Patrick took a deep breath. “You don’t need to be sorry, Pete. Let go of your past mistakes, and just… Just take some fucking responsibility for your future for once.”

“Yeah, thanks, you already told me that.” It came out less annoyed and more insecure than Pete must have intended, and he stayed silent afterwards. No sharp reply, no witty words.

“I still mean it,” Patrick said through gritted teeth. “You can’t go back, so maybe you can take a step forward instead.”

That was only half-true; Patrick was sure there were enough other dark corners in this city, enough other streets eager to welcome a new old hooker for the different yet same old Johns. Pete didn’t say anything, though he must’ve thought the same. It hung unsaid between them, a weight that settled on Patrick’s chest and made him withdraw his hand. Losing Pete again – no, that would be unbearable, yet sadly, a very much real option.

 

“Do you think the guy will go to the police?” Patrick asked in an attempt to change the topic. “Do you think he’ll come look for Brendon?”

Pete let out an ugly laugh. “I doubt it. Look, Patrick, boys like Brendon… They’re a dime a dozen. Why bother with all the trouble of getting Brendon back when that bastard can just drive to the next forgotten corner of this rotten city, and pick up someone else? There’s dozens of desperate kids all eager for a warm bed, warm meal, and some warm words no matter if it’s a lie or not. He’ll find someone else.” Pete shook his head, a grim expression now on his face. “The guy doesn’t give a fuck about the kid. He just wants someone young and cute and inexperienced, someone who doesn’t make any trouble.”

“I really hope that’s true.” Patrick couldn’t help but sigh as he fought down the upcoming panic in his chest; thoughts about cops and police cars, about jail and prison, uncomfortable hearings and lawyers and the vast amount of money all of it would take.

“No one cares about us, Patrick,” Pete interrupted these thoughts, as if he was thinking the same. “Nobody cares about the hookers on the corner of a street everyone pretends doesn’t exist. No one knows us, and no one gives a shit if we live, or end up dead in some anonymous motel room. Maybe, that’ll work in our favor for once.”

Patrick nodded, because really, there wasn’t anything he could do. Just wait and hope for the best.

“Someone else will pay the price,” Pete mumbled. “Another kid that this bastard will undoubtedly pick up. Another boy to be abused. Someone who might not be so lucky. Fuck, Patrick, I…” He didn’t finish the sentence, just buried his face in his arms, suffocation the sobs born out of sheer frustration. Patrick stayed silent, because it was true, and because he had no answer. He just put his hand back on Pete’s shoulder, tried to make it a comforting gesture, tried to remain calm himself.

After a while, Pete relaxed, and splashed some of the now lukewarm water over his face. “I’m done,” he mumbled, “could you get me a towel, please?”

Patrick did as he was told, held the towel out while he tried not to blush as Pete got out of the bathtub. It was silly, to blush at his nakedness, but the situation hadn’t lost anything of its intimacy. It still gave Patrick the feeling he was an intruder. He hadn’t paid Pete any money, Pete wasn’t here as his hooker, so what right did he have to stare?

Pete just looked so small and lost, so unlike the usual self he had presented to Patrick every other time. Messy hair that started to curl just slightly, dark eyeliner traded for redness from crying, lips devoid of any smile; only the sadness in his eyes was the same.

He took a step closer, rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick couldn’t help but sling his arms around him. Pete in his embrace, warm and safe (for now, at least) – all Patrick could feel was the desperate need to keep it that way, to have Pete warm and safe and unharmed forever. _Please, please, please_.

Eventually, Pete gently motioned him to let go. He took a deep breath, seemingly struggling with himself; then, he threw the towel aside, sent Patrick a shaky smile and a determined look.

“I appreciate what you told the kid,” Pete said in a sweet voice. “But you don’t need to keep up the virtuous façade for me. Nothing in life is free, right? So. Whatever you want, I’ll let you have it.”

Patrick felt anger rising at him, and it took a considerable amount of effort not to snap at Pete. He reminded himself it wasn’t malicious; that was just what Pete had come to expect after countless experiences that Patrick would rather not think about.

“I meant what I said, Pete.” Patrick tried to keep his voice firm and even. “I don’t want anything from you. I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do, not because I expect to get something out of this.”

“Really,” Pete said in disbelief. “C’mon, no reason for any false modesty. We’ve traded sex for goods before.”

Patrick shook his head; no, no way he could exploit Pete’s situation for sex. No way he could ever trade sex with Pete for _anything_ , be it money or shelter. He was done with that.

“Why don’t you want me?” Pete whispered quietly, all confidence gone from his voice. “Please, Patrick… Let me give you more than disappointment.”

“I don’t want to buy you, ever again, I thought I made that fairly clear last time. If I ever were to sleep with you again, Pete… I’d want you to want it, and not because you feel the need to pay me back for anything.” Patrick picked up the towel again, threw it over Pete’s shivering body. No more unwanted nakedness. “I want you to be happy,” Patrick mumbled. “I want you to have a better life. That’s all the payment I need. Please, Pete, just… At least consider it.”

Pete stayed silent, but he slung the towel closer around himself. “Why did you come back?” he asked after a while. “If you don’t wanna buy me – why come back to me?”

“You stole from me.” It sounded ridiculous said out loud, especially given the worthless items he believed Pete to have stolen. “I just wanted to know why.” Patrick bit his lip, and forced himself to look Pete in the eye.

“Well, you owe me, Patrick. As simple as that.” Pete let out a small laugh, one that left a sad smile on his face. “You never gave me that goodbye kiss.”

“I still want to kiss you,” Patrick confessed in a small voice. “But if I do so, does it have to mean goodbye?”

“No.” The smile on Pete’s face widened a little, some of its sadness lost now. “No, I suppose it could mean something else.”

For a moment, Patrick was tempted. It would have been so easy to lean forward, so easy to kiss Pete, so easy to just… But Patrick couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. It had been a troubled night, and clearly, neither him nor Pete knew what to make of their situation. Pete was agitated and clearly not in the best mindset; what if he regretted the decision tomorrow? Patrick wanted a kiss born from happiness, not chaos – or worse, a sense of cold, calculated obligation.

“Think about what it could mean,” Patrick said instead, hoping Pete would come to the same conclusion as he did – that it could be a fresh start instead of a goodbye, that it could be given with happiness and joy and excitement, that it could just be a goddamn gesture of affection instead of a loaded gun. “I want to, Pete, but… I want to do it right. It’s getting late, you’ve had a rough night, and…”

“Yeah, I understand.” Pete shrugged, clearly not happy, but also realizing how difficult and fragile everything between them was. He took off the towel again – neatly putting it over the heater this time, like whenever he had showered at Patrick’s previously – and reached for his clothes. Although Pete seemed to have little problem with being naked (Patrick wasn’t sure if that was just from his time as a hooker, or if maybe, Pete just naturally had an exhibitionistic streak), Patrick turned around, because it only seemed respectful to at least pretend there was some privacy left.

Would Pete still be here in the morning? Would Pete stay, just like Patrick had asked him so many times before? Patrick didn’t know. All he knew was that Pete pressed a small but sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth; “to say goodnight,” Pete whispered, before he gave Patrick the first genuine smile that night. “And… Thanks for everything.”

With that, Pete left, and shortly after, the bedroom door was shut behind him. With a sigh, Patrick went over to the couch, and tried his best to make himself comfortable. Everything was silent, only the gloomy lights of the city illuminating the room a little. Ah, but Pete was safe tonight, just like Brendon; shielded from the streets, protected from further violence and grief. A first step, one of many, as Patrick hoped.

Pete being alive, Pete being safe, Pete being happy, oh, whatever it took – Patrick was willing to pay. It had to be possible, oh, it had to. Please, please, _please_.

 

 

Next day, Patrick woke up disoriented, on his couch, and with someone shaking his shoulder.

Someone was talking to him, and for a moment, utter confusion was all Patrick could feel. Why was he on the couch, and why was there someone waking him up?

But when the memories finally came back he jolted up, all thoughts of sleep lost. Pete, yes, Pete was still here, and the kid must’ve been here too.

“Your alarm clock,” Pete said, slightly annoyed, and probably not for the first time. “It kept going, Patrick. I wouldn’t have woken you up, but I guess you set that thing for a reason.”

Patrick gave a semi-coherent swear as an answer, while he tried to organize his thoughts. The two hookers were still in his apartment, and the alarm clock – _oh, damn it_.

“I have work,” Patrick blurted out as he sat up properly.

“Work?” Pete repeated incredulously, while Patrick got up and made a pathetic attempt at stretching his limbs in the vain hope of fully waking up.

“Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t exactly plan this mess to happen!” Patrick hissed, annoyed with everything. How was he supposed to pretend to be a functional, regular adult when he had two illegal prostitutes and potentially the police at home? Well, so far, no sign of any cops, but the panic low in Patrick’s stomach still didn’t let him rest.

The words had come out harsher than he meant. Patrick decided it was for the best if he just got washed and dressed and made himself into a coherent, sensible person. He left Pete behind on the couch, and stumbled towards his bedroom, only to remember someone else had been sleeping there. He turned back to Pete. “Where’s the kid?”

“Kitchen,” came the answer, much to Patrick’s relief. He wasn’t used to sharing his apartment, especially not with two people at once. That had been cute when he was a starry-eyed teen sharing tiny flats with fellow band mates and musicians, but Patrick had to admit, he quite liked his personal space.

Part of him just wanted to stay home, wanted to call in with a bullshit excuse and just say screw it. But the tiny rational part of Patrick’s brain that had miraculously survived reminded him he hadn’t exactly done stellar work during the last few lovesick days and weeks. There were deadlines and there was money involved, there were responsibilities and it was a miracle he got away with all the unanswered business emails or the way he regularly brought everyone at the studio close to tears of frustration with demands for perfection. It was best not to test everyone’s patience, and this wasn’t the best time to see how far he could push the boundaries.

Patrick found the two hookers sitting in the kitchen, where the kid stared at his half-empty bowl of cereal with exceptional guilt. “I’m sorry I just took the food, but Pete said it was okay,” Brendon mumbled, and Pete raised his eyebrow, waiting for approval.

“Sure,” Patrick said with a sigh, “be my guest. Pete, a word?”

Pete followed him to the hallway, where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed and a cautious look in his eyes.

 

“I’ll go to work now,” Patrick started nervously. “Look, Pete, I think I made it clear that I’m willing to help you. I know, well, we _both_ know it’s not gonna be easy. But I’ve made my decision. I’m just waiting for yours.” He took a deep breath, and continued: “I’m not trying to force you to become my boyfriend, or anything you’re not comfortable with. This is not about me. I’m happy to be just your friend, but Pete, things need to change, and – you can’t go back to being a hooker, please.”

Patrick stopped himself, before more embarrassing pleas could escape him. He wanted to beg and cry and yell, but be also knew none of this would help.

“But,” Patrick forced himself to say as calmly as possible, “if that’s what you want… If you want to go back to the street, find another corner to sell yourself, if you want to go back to downing pills and everything… I can’t tell you not to. It’s up to you, Pete. But if that’s what you want –“ Patrick broke off, and bit back the bile in his throat. “If that’s what you want, I want you to be _gone_ when I come back.”

Pete stayed silent, lowered his head as he looked away. It dawned on Patrick that it was the first time he’d seen Pete in daylight without all the hooker clothes and make-up, without smug smiles and his hands full of cash. He looked older, exhausted, devoid of any of the usual playfulness or confidence. Patrick’s clothes were too big on his frail body, and the daylight made some of the ink on his skin look even more washed-out. Worry had etched itself into Pete’ expression, with lips drawn into a frown and narrowed eyes under furrowed brows.

Everything in Patrick just wanted to hug him, to tell him it was going to be fine, to forgive Pete for everything and tell him it was fine, just fine. But he couldn’t, it wasn’t what Pete needed to hear, it wasn’t what he needed Patrick to do.

“I’ve asked you to stay before,” Patrick said through gritted teeth, and it costed all of his remaining strength to not let his voice falter. “And I still mean it – stay, Pete, please. But if you don’t want that, then _go_. Leave, and you can take whatever you want, I won’t be coming back for you, ever again. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Pete whispered almost inaudibly.

With that, Patrick was out the door; the irony of that didn’t escape him. Everything had been said, and all that was left in him was an infinite loop of the same words.

 

 _Please, Pete, stay; please, please, please_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments, it's what keeps me going!
> 
>  
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr and if you like the story, please reblog the art, it would mean a lot!


	13. Is It Really So Strange?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! With more art, too! As always, I hope you enjoy both the visuals and the story. 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being such an awesome beta reader as always!~

 

 

 

 

Work that day was hell, though no one at the studio seemed to mind that Patrick had traded his usual commanding attitude for almost complete, tight-lipped silence. He tried to ignore the panic still churning his guts; about the cops showing up, about the kid’s pimp miraculously finding the two of them and doing whatever violence he was capable of, about, about…

Mostly, Patrick was afraid to come back home to an empty apartment, with Pete gone forever.

The hours went by somehow, though Patrick felt more like he’d been sleepwalking the entire time. He couldn’t remember a single one of the few words exchanged with anyone, couldn’t recall what he had typed out in response to any old email he should’ve answered two weeks ago, and barely managed to focus on the music he was paid for. Nothing really got done and usually, that meant he would’ve stayed longer. But today, as soon as it was possible, Patrick fled the studio, heart pounding in his chest as he desperately hoped not to come home to an absent Pete.

His hands were shaking when he turned the key, and when he stumbled into his apartment, gloomy silence greeted him. For a few terrifying, gut-wrenching seconds there was just nothing, and every bit of air seemed to leave Patrick’s lungs.

 

But then, he noticed the light coming from his living room, heard a voice say, “was that the door?” and a moment later, Brendon showed up in the hallway, face bright with excitement.

“Patrick, I wanted to ask – oh, please, the beautiful Gretsch you have, I’ve been staring at it all day and I wanted to ask if –“ the boy caught his breath, and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I just… Would you let me try? I promise I’ll handle it with utter care! Just a few minutes, just to try –“

Patrick held up his hand to interrupt the rambling, and then, Pete showed up behind the kid, an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug, “couldn’t stop him. He’s been excited all day.”

Brendon nodded, then took a deep breath. He lowered his head, hands behind his back now, as he repeated the request in a sweet voice that must have been reserved for customers. “May I try out the Gretsch, Pa- uh, mister? Sir?”

“Please, just call me Patrick,” Patrick said weakly, “and you don’t have to put on the hooker show. Just… Ask like a normal person.” He sighed, and usually, there would have been a long lecture about his treasured custom-made guitar and how it had to be handled, but right now, Patrick couldn’t bring himself to care. “Go ahead, just be careful.”

There was a frantic sound that was half-screaming, half _thank you_! as the boy stormed back into the living room. Pete leaned against the doorway, with an unusual air of insecurity.

“Welcome home?” Pete said with a shaky smile.

Any kind of self-restraint that Patrick had managed to hold on went out the window in an instant. Every dream he had had, every desperate wish he had made, everything he had wanted so, so much, it was all so close, seemed just within reach. Before he had time to overthink anything, his hands were on Pete’s hips, and his lips were pressed on Pete’s, desperate, oh so desperate to catch up on every single kiss he had missed out.

Ah, and when Pete kissed back – it was paradise, it was a few seconds of perfection, of sweet, blissful romance. Deep in the back of his mind, Patrick knew it was just a moment of stolen happiness, just a passing moment, the highlight of what would be a long, hard journey.

He knew it wasn’t that easy, he knew it was barely the beginning and that there was no guarantee for anything. He knew Pete’s bones pressed too prominently against his fingers, that there was still the potential of illness that Pete liked to gloss over, that the taste of artificial happiness and sleep still seemed to linger on Pete’s tongue under the faint taste of tobacco, no matter how impossible that was. And there was so much more he didn’t know, so many questions about everyone’s future that Patrick had no clue how to answer – but all that didn’t matter right now.

All that mattered was Pete, right here, with him, not just a thin illusion that would disappear as soon as they ran out of paid time. Patrick buried his face in the crook of Pete’s neck with a content sigh; it smelled a little like cigarettes, but mostly, it smelled like _Pete_.

“I’m still here,” Pete mumbled, “I’ve made my decision, Patrick. I’ll stay. That is, until you get sick of me. You know it won’t be easy, right?” Pete sounded cautious, and Patrick groaned a little. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, yet Pete continued anyway. “I’ve got… I’ve got _nothing_ , Patrick. Some pretty looks and an absent gag reflex, that’s all I can offer. But I’ll need money, a real job, a place to live, and healthcare, and all that shit – fuck, I don’t even know where to start. And then there’s the kid… I need to care for Brendon, too.”

Pete took a step back. “The kid’s staying too, right? Because otherwise –“

“Of course,” Patrick interrupted him. “What, you think I’ll send him back to his pimp?”

“No…” Pete sighed, and Patrick pulled him closer again. They stayed like that for a moment, as Patrick tried to gather his thoughts. Pete was really here, Pete was going to stay, but the relief started to fade a little as a million other questions and doubts started screaming at him.

“I don’t know if I made the right decision,” Pete said after a while, self-deprecation and the same sort of doubts swinging in his voice. “Patrick, I… I don’t know if I can do this. I want to, please believe me, but…”

“Well, I don’t know either,” Patrick answered truthfully. “But what I know is that we have each other. We can do this together, okay?”

“And I guess we also have a kid to care for now,” Pete sighed. “We’re gonna be a wonderful little dysfunctional family full of weirdos. Just peachy.”

Patrick didn’t reply, just planted a shy kiss to Pete’s lips before he let go of him.

“Speaking of kids, maybe I should get to know a bit more about Brendon.” He could hear the boy playing around with the guitar in the living room, and couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit anxious for his beloved instrument.

Much to his relief, the guitar still looked and sounded perfectly intact, and Brendon’s concentrated face made Patrick bite back a smile. It seemed like the boy really liked music; now that was something Patrick could work with once some of the more uncomfortable questions were out of the way.

“There’s some stuff I want to ask you,” Patrick started nervously. Brendon nodded, but kept the guitar in his hand, as if to remain calm.

“Brendon, do you have any family you can call? Someone who misses you? Your parents, your relatives?”

“No one misses me,” Brendon said snottily. “They’re glad a useless bastard like me is gone – they said so themselves when they threw me out. And now that I’m eighteen, there’s no way anyone can ever force me back to live with my family.”

Patrick sighed, while Pete looked away with clear guilt in his eyes.

“Fine,” Patrick continued as he made a mental note to talk to Pete about _his_ family later. “What about your education? Did you finish high school? What do you want to do, Brendon? I assume being a prostitute wasn’t your dream job.”

Brendon shrugged, a gesture he must have picked up from Pete whenever confronted with uncomfortable questions. “I didn’t finish high school. I was too busy being homeless. And I didn’t exactly have time for dreams, because I was too busy trying not to freeze to death.”

That was only partially true, Patrick suspected, but he wasn’t sure if he had earned enough of the boy’s trust yet to get access to his inner thoughts, to dreams and goals and the darker side of a longer story. It would have to do for now.

“Okay then. So, I guess getting you back to school should be our first priority.” Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose, and couldn’t help but sigh again. He felt like he was going to do that a lot in the near future.

“But what about money?” Brendon looked at him in confusion. “For rent, living expenses, for you tolerating me here… There must be something I can give you in return?”

“No,” Patrick said through gritted teeth. “You don’t need to give me anything in return. That’s not how it works, Brendon. You’re eighteen, you have to finish school and get an education. That’s your job, okay?”

One look at the still confused frown on Brendon’s face made it clear that the boy had a completely different definition of normality. He sent a questioning look to Pete, who seemed slightly overwhelmed as well.

“Patrick is right,” Pete said eventually, “believe me, you should do better than me and go to school, and make use of whatever education you can get.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said with a nod. “I appreciate the support.”

“Oh, you guys are fucking terrible,” Brendon scowled, “what, are you gonna pretend to be my parents now?”

“Shut up, Brendon,” Pete retorted, “we just want what’s best for you. And a brat like you should listen to an adult with experience. I don’t want to see you make the same mistakes as me, okay?”

“Pete, you’re the last person I’ll listen to,” Brendon mumbled, though he didn’t seem too serious. “Also, can you two stop calling me kid? I’m not a child anymore, okay?”

“Sure,” Pete said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t agreeing with any of that.

Patrick watched as Brendon’s hand wandered to the tuning pegs, and couldn’t stop himself from hissing: “ _Don’t touch those_ . The guitar is tuned _perfectly_ , okay, you don’t need to –“ He interrupted himself, and took a deep breath. Accepting people into his life was going to be hard, but that was no reason to snap at the kid. “Sorry,” Patrick said instead, “I’m just… Well. Doesn’t matter. I’ll get you your own guitar, and you can play around with that as much as you like.”

Brendon furrowed his brows. “Seriously? But I can’t pay for that -”

“I already told you,” Patrick interrupted him impatiently, “you don’t need to pay me money, or sexual favors, or _anything_.”

“No, wait. I know. You can pay us in good grades, sweetie,” Pete said with a grin, and slung his arm around Patrick. It was a joke, the parody of a conversation that Pete no doubt had once heard, but still, it felt almost real. It felt _good_.

There were more questions on Patrick’s tongue, heavy-hearted and serious. About Brendon’s health, about HIV and drugs, about struggles and stories of how he had ended up here.

For the first time though, there was a genuine smile on Brendon’s face, and Patrick couldn’t bring himself to ruin that. It was nice to keep up the illusion just a little longer.

It was nice to sit at the kitchen together, have a late supper, and hear Brendon talk about music, even if it was about the guitar he had sold and the records he had had to leave behind at home or never could afford in the first place, even if Pete barely ate.

Not much later, Brendon let out a yawn, and pushed his chair back. “I’ll take the couch tonight,” he announced. “You two can go play mommy and daddy in the big bed.”

“Y’know, I liked you a lot better when you were all nice and timid,” Pete said with false sternness, while Patrick just shook his head. The kid was putting on an act, they both knew it.

 

Soon enough Patrick found himself in his bedroom, with Pete, feeling incredibly awkward. When Pete had been his hooker, paid to do as he wanted, here for rushed sex and nothing more, things had been a lot easier.

“So, you wanna play daddy?” Pete asked with a grin.

“Pete, please, I never want to hear the word _daddy_ from you again,” Patrick said with a frown, causing Pete to chuckle. It was nice to hear him laugh, even if just a little; hopefully, there would be more of that in the future. Patrick lay down next to him, in a modest distance. He decided that it would be up to Pete to come closer or not; if he wanted something, Pete usually wasn’t shy about it.

“It’s not really a joke,” Patrick mumbled, and rested his head on his arms, face turned to Pete. “I’m not exactly prepared to care for a teen all of the sudden.”

“You and I have that in common. Fuck, Patrick, I can barely care for myself, how the hell do I deal with a kid?” Pete sighed heavily. “I wanted to get some of my stuff today… Some clothes and such. Brendon couldn’t let me go, Patrick, he was so _terrified_ to be left alone. It took me ten minutes to get him to stop crying, and I hadn’t even so much as set foot outside the door. Maybe it’s because it’s all been too recent, but what if he doesn’t stop being so afraid?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick answered sincerely. “You were right, I don’t have the answers either. We’ll just have to try and hope for the best for now, I guess. And there’s – I don’t know, you can pay people to help, right? A therapist, trauma counselors, I don’t know. We’ll find something, we’ll help Brendon, okay?”

“ _We_ , huh?” Pete shook his head, but there was a smile on his lips, and he rolled over to his stomach. Patrick reached out his hand, relieved when he heard the content sigh as he ran his fingers through Pete’s hair. Pete closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, like he had done before, and Patrick couldn’t help but feel a little proud that he had found a gesture of affection Pete actually liked.

That feeling was short-lived, as everything else he had done with the hooker flooded Patrick’s mind, and when their conversation from last time surfaced in his memories.

 

Patrick thought about all the times he had bought the hooker. All the ugly thoughts that had surfaced in his mind, all the things he had done and said.

 _Just a hooker_ , Patrick had tried to tell himself as he had pulled Pete’s hair a little too harshly, _just a whore_ as he had pushed his cock into Pete’s body, _that’s what you get for smirking at me so mockingly_ when Pete was panting under him, _that’s what you get for never being mine_ whenever Pete’s grin had been replaced by a cry of pleasure, or whatever other emotion Patrick forced upon him.

 _Shut up_ , Patrick had said whenever it had pleased him, _tell me more_ to hear all the sweet lies, _louder, Pete, I can’t hear you_ whenever the moans Pete supplied weren’t convincing enough.

He had said he was sorry, and the hooker had merely shrugged, but that wasn’t enough, it just wasn’t enough.

“Pete,” Patrick whispered, “Pete… Can you ever forgive me?”

Pete opened his eyes, and sent him a cautious look. “What? Where did that come from?”

“Can you forgive me?” Patrick repeated helplessly. “For what happened between us… Back when I bought you.”

“What is there to forgive?” Pete asked with a small shrug. “I told you, Patrick. I was your hooker, and you were a client, that’s it. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“That’s not true. Pete, I was – I did –“ Patrick couldn’t finish the sentence, but Pete had been there with him – Pete knew everything Patrick had done.

The weight of everything came crashing down on him, the reality of it unpleasant and unforgiving.

“Patrick…” Pete sighed, seemingly at a loss of how to deal with the situation. “I don’t… I don’t know, okay? Look, there’s a line between my job and my private life, sex as a hooker is different from real sex. You purchased a product, and I was there to give the performance you paid me for. Don’t victimize me, okay?”

Patrick bit his lip, and nodded.

Pete sighed again, and a thoughtful, sadder look was now on his face. “I don’t know,” he repeated, “Forgiveness is a big word, and this is a lot to ask of me. I haven’t figured out everything yet, okay? I’m not sure how to do this, either. You can’t expect me to give you an answer right here, right now.”

All Patrick could do was nod. He sighed when another uncomfortable question from earlier came up in his mind. “Pete, what about _your_ family?”

Pete shrugged, but Patrick was not going to accept that as an answer. They’d have to talk about it sooner or later anyway.

“I told you, I haven’t spoken to them in a long time,” Pete said after a while, “at first, it was just arrogance, but then I just… I couldn’t face them. I was too ashamed. I was sure they’d be better off without me in their live altogether.”

“That’s doubtful,” Patrick couldn’t help but remark, and for a moment, there was anger in Pete’s eyes, before he turned his head away.

“What would I even say to them?” Pete scoffed. “How do I explain I haven’t achieved anything in my life aside from being a whore on the streets? I’ve done some fucked-up shit for money, Patrick… How could they ever love me again?”

“Your parents sound like good people,” Patrick answered, hoping that was true. “I doubt they ever stopped loving you in the first place. Look, you don’t need to tell them your whole life story, or anything you’re not comfortable with, but…”

“I get it.” Pete still sounded angry. “And then, I can introduce them to my family: A runaway teen who prostituted himself right next to me on the street, and my former-client-turned-boyfriend who helped us to escape the police. They’ll be overjoyed!”

“Well, if you think they’re happier thinking you’re hurt, lost, or _dead_ , that’s your fucking choice then.” Patrick rolled over to his back, and crossed his arms over his chest. Evidently, this would be one of many difficult battles yet to come.

A shy hand was placed on Patrick’s shoulder. Pete had rolled to his side, and the anger had been replaced with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry,” Pete said in a small voice, “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just… I’m afraid, Patrick. And I’m angry with myself, because there’s this teen out in the other room who had nothing but horrible people in his life, whose family has treated him like shit and here am I, the son of a fucking lawyer, someone who had nice friends and parents who weren’t utter garbage and I just – I had all these privileges and chances, and I just threw them away. I should have been a better person.”

“You can still become a better person.” Patrick turned to his side, and forced himself to look into Pete’s eyes. This was important, and he just wanted Pete to believe. “Please, Pete. Don’t give up yet.”

Pete nodded quietly, though the doubt in his eyes was as frustrating as the sadness in his forced smile. “You should get some sleep,” Pete whispered. “You’re the one here who has an actual job.”

“What about you?” Patrick mumbled, but Pete just shook his head.

“Don’t worry about me, Patrick. You’ve already wasted enough time with that.”

Patrick decided not to argue that, and not to point out that he’d still spend a lot more worrying about Pete. Instead, he gently placed his hand on Pete’s hip, a shy request for the desperate longings that had been burning in him for so long – Pete safe, in his arms, cuddled close to him while they forgot about everything else for a while; a sort of intimacy that all his money never could have bought him.

There was nervousness in Pete’s eyes, one he had never seen there with the hooker. “I… I’d rather not.”

“Oh… Okay.” Embarrassed, Patrick withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Pete said apologetically, “I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s just…”

The sentence remained unfinished, but Patrick could imagine a dozen ways to end it. Nauseating mental images of anonymous hands, of abuse and broken trust, of disgust and humiliation swirled in Patrick’s head; and he remembered how often Pete had subtly shied away from unwanted body contact, how he had panicked when Patrick had done something against his will like holding him down.

“I can stop working as a hooker,” Pete whispered, “but I can’t just stop being everything it made me into.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick mumbled, not because things were okay, but because he really didn’t have anything better to say. “We have time. We’ll get better.”

“Go to sleep,” Pete said softly; Patrick was treated again to a small, chaste goodnight kiss, and Pete did reach out his hand to trail over Patrick’s cheek.

Soon enough, Patrick fell asleep, wishing his words would come true, and pretending the hand on his face wasn’t trembling.

 

When Patrick woke up, he found himself alone in his bed. He couldn’t help but panic for a moment, and couldn’t help but stumble out of bed, driven by desperation and fear that Pete might have lied, that he was gone, that –

It turned out to be a pointless worry. He found Brendon still sleeping on the couch, and Pete in the kitchen.

“You’re awake,” Pete said with something that sounded like relief and… Excitement? At least, that’s what Patrick believed. “You’re out of almost everything edible again, by the way. Look, I’m not a picky eater, but you have money, you could buy some damn groceries once in a while. How do you even _live_ here?”

Patrick just groaned in response as he sat next to Pete, head buried in his hands.

“I don’t know why you chose this apartment anyway,” Pete continued. “with neighbors and shit like that, don’t they complain about the noise when you play? And it’s too small – I mean, not only because there’s three people now, but because apparently you play every instrument ever, and they all take up so much space. What were you thinking?”

“I actually play more,” Patrick couldn’t help but say. “Well… That is, if I have time anymore. And, uh, well, I guess I live more in the studio than here. I always meant to move, I just… Never did it. Why bother, you know?”

“You come with your own baggage, huh?” There was the hint of a smile on Pete’s lips, just enough to assure him the words weren’t meant as accusations. “’s what I thought. It’s nice that you’ve seemed to have ditched the alcohol, but…”

“I’m not perfect,” Patrick sighed. “Although, now that there’s three people living here, I’ve never been more motivated to move.”

“And how do we do that?” Pete asked cautiously. “I can’t pay rent. I don’t have money. I’m… not the best at housekeeping, or cooking, or just being a functional adult.”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said helplessly. He felt like he was saying that a little too often. “Can we… Can we talk about money when you actually get a job?”

“About that – there’s an old friend of mine,” Pete started slowly; it was clear he had this speech planned out. “Someone who’s been there for me back when… I was doing badly. He’s always offered to help me, and I just couldn’t accept it back then. Maybe, his offer still stands. If so, I’d trust him with knowing people who won’t ask too many questions, and who won’t think that being caught with drugs once should ruin someone’s life forever.”

“This isn’t something shady, right?” Patrick sent a stern glance to Pete.

“It isn’t.” Pete let out a small, honest laugh. “His name’s Andy, and he’s the most correct person ever. Straight-edge, against violence, involved in all sorts of liberal politics, vegan and fighting against animal cruelty… If there’s anyone who won’t tolerate bullshit but is willing to help, it’s him. Would you let me use your computer for that?”

Patrick nodded, though he hated sharing it. He hated sharing most things, if he had to be honest; _well, but at least I don’t have to share Pete with his clients anymore, right?_

Pete stood up, and the seriousness in his face was replaced with a grin. “Before that… Would you like to use the _bed_ with me?”

“You can stop that, you know,” Patrick mumbled as he stood up too, and lay his arms around Pete’s waist. “You don’t need to do the hooker talk...”

There was no answer, just an eyeroll and a kiss from Pete, one that quickly turned dirty, and before Patrick knew it, they had stumbled back into the bedroom, before he could overthink anything, Pete had dragged of their shirts and pressed him into the mattress, straddling his hips.

“Let me touch you,” Pete said with hunger in his voice, dark and demanding like the hooker never had been. “I hated how you kept that away from me.”

“I wanted it,” Patrick confessed in a small voice, “and I hated myself for craving this, because…”

“I was a dirty hooker?” Pete ended the sentence tentatively, but Patrick shook his head. No, that might have been his first thought, what he had told himself for the longest time, but it wasn’t the real reason. It was just the lie that had been easier to endure than the infuriating truth.

“Because I could never really have you,” Patrick mumbled. “Because I knew it would never truly belong to me. It would have been a lie, just like kissing you, and… I wanted the real thing, or nothing at all.”

“You’re a real dumbass, Patrick,” Pete said with a chuckle, “and you’re always worrying way too much.”

“Why would you want to touch me that much anyway?” Patrick mumbled as Pete’s hand trailed down to his pants, about to undo the belt.

“Because I like you, idiot.” Pete undid Patrick’s belt, and  shoved his pants down. “What kind of question is that, anyway? You’re cute,” Patrick felt Pete’s hands back on his body, trailing over soft thighs, a soft stomach, and skin pale enough to look sick, “you’re delicious,” Pete’s lips on his chest, the flicker of a tongue against his nipples, “and I want you to be _mine_.”

“You don’t need to talk.” Patrick sighed a little. “You don’t need to… Tell me any lies, or talk just to make me happy, okay?”

That didn’t go well with Pete, who narrowed his eyes in anger. “Why would I lie to you about this? I get it, you’re insecure, but that doesn’t mean you can project this on me. I’m not a liar, unless someone pays me to be.” Pete shook his head, and his expression softened. “If you want this… _Us_ to work, you’ll have to trust me.”

Patrick nodded cautiously as he watched how Pete discarded his pants and underwear, then reached for his bag – Patrick couldn’t remember seeing that in his bedroom yesterday.

“Did you plan this?” Patrick asked with a frown as Pete got out the lube and condoms. It felt off, seeing him use the regular products they’d used during paid sex. “I have lube and condoms too, by the way.”

“I’d rather use my own,” Pete said as he threw both on the mattress.

“So much for trust,” Patrick couldn’t help but remark.

“It’s not rational, okay?” Pete looked torn between anger and helplessness. “I fucking told you, I just can’t switch off and shove away all my habits from work. It’s part of me and as much as I hate it, I can’t just make it go away. I couldn’t trust my fucking clients with anything, especially not protection. I couldn’t trust them, I couldn’t trust anyone, I couldn’t – I was just so fucking _afraid_ , Patrick, and I can’t just stop being afraid.”

Pete broke off, and lay down next to Patrick on his stomach, face buried in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said softly as he helplessly placed his hand on Pete’s back. “We’ll do this in whatever way is comfortable for you.”

Pete turned his head towards him, and let out a sigh. “Ridiculous, right? You should be the one afraid of me,” he said in a shaky voice. “I’m the potentially diseased whore.”

“I’m not afraid.” Patrick gave Pete a small kiss, and a hopefully reassuring smile. “You’re the one who’s worrying too much now.”

“Can we just stop talking?” Pete asked as he rolled over to his side. “Touch me, Patrick. Kiss me. Let’s feel good for a while. I want you to fuck me, _me_ , not just some hooker. It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Patrick said with a small smile, “I want that, too.”

“You want me?” Pete asked in a low voice as he let his fingers trail over Patrick’s thighs, frustratingly far away from his cock. Patrick nodded, and the lube was shoved into his hands. “Thought so,” Pete said with a big grin, one that couldn’t quite hide the relief in his eyes. “There, get me ready for your dick.”

With that, Pete threw his leg over Patrick’s thigh, watching impatiently as Patrick drizzled the lube over his fingers. “Kiss me,” Pete demanded hungrily, “stop treating it like you’re taking something from me – you’re _giving_ me something, so don’t feel bad about it. I hate that.”

Any embarrassment over this too true observation was soon forgotten as Patrick followed the request, with equal hunger and relief behind his kisses. This time, finally, for once, there wasn’t an invisible clock in the back of Patrick’s mind, there wasn’t any money involved, there wasn’t the bottomless fear that Pete would vanish as soon as the pleasant part was over.

What there was instead, Patrick wasn’t sure, but right now, with two fingers inside Pete already and with Pete’s hand stroking his dick, it wasn’t like he was going to overthink it.

“Fuck,” Pete groaned, “fuck, Patrick, your fucking hands – ah, so good…” He groaned again when Patrick’s fingers brushed over his prostate, barely even flinched when Patrick slipped in a third finger. Patrick watched, entranced with the sight; a soft blush, parted lips, eyes squeezed shut – Pete just looked so pretty, and possessiveness curled low in Patrick’s stomach. _No one_ but him was ever going to get that sight again, _no one_ would lay hand on Pete for just a few bucks again, **_I_ ** _am the one and only Pete wants, trusts, desires to do this with_.

Patrick kissed him again, and it didn’t fail to spark pure joy in his brain. Kissing Pete, having him kiss back, it was so simple and yet so satisfying.

“This is enough for me,” Patrick mumbled in between kisses, “we don’t have to… It’s up to you, Pete.” He hoped is wasn’t enough for Pete either, but if it was, Patrick wasn’t going to coax any more out of him.

“Oh, shut up,” came the snotty answer, and Pete motioned him to pull out. “I want your cock. I don’t need to beg for it, right? Because not to disappoint you, but I actually _hate_ that.”

“No,” Patrick answered as shame clawed at his chest. How often had he made Pete beg? How often had he had the hooker say _please_ , over and over again? How often -?

“Hey.” Pete said up with a sigh, and reached for the condom. “Look, I didn’t give a shit what a client wanted me to say. I said much, much worse things for show, that didn’t mean anything. That wasn’t real, y’know. But this here, with us… When we’re having real sex, I don’t wanna beg for anything, okay? I don’t… It makes me feel so degraded, and I just… I can’t do it.”

Patrick planted a small kiss to his cheek, then rested their foreheads together. “You don’t need to beg,” Patrick said sternly, “you don’t ever need to do anything you don’t want to. I’m sorry that I – I’m sorry for asking that of you.”

“Spare me yet another sorry,” Pete scowled. “There’s no fucking need to be this damn sorry all the time. I told you, I didn’t have any problems with pretending. I just don’t wanna do it for real, okay?”

“Yeah.” Patrick nodded, and Pete, clearly not in the mood for any further discussion, reached for his dick to swiftly roll the rubber over it. Then, Pete slicked up his fingers, and despite the condom, Patrick couldn’t help but moan when he felt them back on his cock. Come to think of it, Pete had never actually touched his cock much, and Patrick had never bothered with a handjob from him. Patrick hoped that they’d have time in the nearby future to explore that option. Waking up next to Pete, a slow makeout session under the warm sheets, giddy laughs and greedy hands on each other’s dicks… Wouldn’t that be a perfect morning?

His fantasies were interrupted when Pete threw his leg over him again, and clutched his hand into Patrick’s waist.

“Hurry up and get inside of me,” Pete demanded in a low voice, eager and impatient and nothing like the docile hooker he had always played.

Patrick grabbed his cock, and lined up with Pete’s entrance. He pushed the head in slowly, agonizingly slow, but when Pete just moaned and grinded closer, Patrick lost what little patience there was left, and slid himself in all the way with one thrust. He saw Pete flinch a little, felt him shudder upon the suddenness.

“Sorry,” Patrick whispered, “I’m sorry – are you alright?”

“’s okay,” Pete said in a hoarse voice, “Move, I can take it.”

Patrick was sure that Pete meant it – Pete wouldn’t complain, would probably just grit his teeth and take it just to please him. Not because Patrick was a client anymore, but because Pete liked to trade his personal comfort for approval. Patrick considered objecting, then decided that Pete was nervous enough. It wasn’t the right time to have a deep debate about personal boundaries.

Instead, Patrick let his hand trail over Pete’s back, soft skin and too hard bones and worries he shoved aside for now; he planted a soft, apologetic kiss to Pete’s parted lips, cupped Pete’s ass with his hand, then wandered in between his cheeks, over the spot where they were connected, massaging over Pete’s rim until he heard Pete groan in desperation.

“You’re not just gonna tease me, right?” Pete let out another groan as he grinded closer, with lust, with _wanting more_ in his voice now instead of _it’s too much_. “Fuck me, Patrick. _Now_.”

Patrick reached for Pete’s dick, only to be stopped by him.

“Don’t,” Pete whispered as he shook his head. He hesitated, sent Patrick a look that was unusually self-conscious. “Just… Just hold me, please?” It sounded so small yet sincere, better than any exaggerated lie Patrick had ever forced out of him.

How could Patrick deny? He slung his arms around Pete’s waist, pulled him closer, hands resting on his back. Pete hummed in approval, a small smile now on his lips. Patrick had held his body a dozen times before, but never like this, and never had Pete asked him to do so before. It pained him a bit that Pete couldn’t accept this closeness outside of sex, that intimacy was such a huge trouble for him.

These thoughts were interrupted by a groan from Pete. “C’mon, Patrick, _move_ , I’m fucking _dying_ over here.”

It was no use to ponder on any deeper issues right now; Patrick decided to just enjoy the little bit of affection he could get.

The position was a little awkward, too close, with too little room to move much. It took a few tries until they found the right pace, some awkward fumbling and a frustrated grumble from Pete, but then, everything fell into place.

There were less words, no silly little lies and no smug grins. There were kisses instead, desperate for things neither of them could name, hopeful and excited and as close to happiness as they had ever gotten, and then Pete shifted his body a little to allow Patrick to slide in even deeper, until –

“Fuck,” he heard Pete gasp, voice muffled against sweaty skin, “ _fuck_ , like this…!”  

Patrick heard another groan from Pete as he thrusted into him again, felt him tighten around his cock whenever he brushed Pete’s prostate. Pete’s dick was lodged between them, hard and leaking and begging to be touched, but Patrick kept his arms slung around Pete’s chest as he had been told, and Pete’s hands were too busy leaving a trail of redness on Patrick’s back.

It was almost too much; the scent of Pete’s skin, Pete’s breathy little moans (nothing like the exaggerated sounds the hooker had made, but oh, so much sweeter), Pete’s hands on his body, blunt nails and pleasurable pain when they met soft skin, Pete, _Pete, Pete_. It was everything Patrick had wanted for so long, had wished for so badly; a delirious dream, except this time, for better and for worse, it was real.

Patrick felt heat pour into his groin, his orgasm oh so close, and his chest ached from a dozen emotions he couldn’t name.

“Patrick,” he heard Pete panting as Pete clung even closer to him, “ah, Patrick, I –“

The rest of Pete’s words were lost in a frantic wail, and then, the delicious little whimper as Pete came, cock still untouched between them, and fuck, that was too goddamn hot. Patrick couldn’t help but groan as he buried his head in Pete’s neck, relishing in the way Pete tightened around him; with another little whimper each time Patrick thrusted into him again, his nails biting sharply into soft skin, and just a few weak thrusts later Patrick came, too.

For a while, neither of them moved, too caught up in the afterglow and the mess of emotions. Patrick kept his arms wrapped around Pete; if only these moments could last forever.

“Pretty good, huh?” Pete said eventually with a hoarse chuckle. “Well, I’m not sure if I can always give you such a nice show, but…”

“You don’t need to give me a show.” Patrick tried to clear his thoughts, and tried to find the right words. “I mean, that’s not the point. You should enjoy yourself, too, and – I don’t know. This isn’t just about me anymore, right?”

“Your eloquence is unparalleled,” Pete said as he sat up. “C’mon, I’ll throw the condom away.”

“Can’t we just cuddle a little?” Patrick asked, hating how pathetic it sounded, and hating the shadow that hushed over Pete’s face.

“Not like this,” Pete answered, gesturing towards the mess on his stomach and between his legs. “I feel gross.”

That really wasn’t reassuring to hear after sex, but Patrick didn’t say that. “Want me to clean you up?” He asked instead, only to receive another refusal in the form of a stern “no, thanks” as Pete already made his way to the door.

With a sigh, Patrick got up and got dressed. There was a whole day of work ahead of him, and a whole load of problems he had yet to even begin to solve; and new ones seem to come up constantly, too. A litany of trouble: Pete’s addiction, his mental health, his trouble with body contact and sex, Pete’s lack of a job or education; Brendon’s as yet untapped load of problems… How was he going to get through this – how were they all going to make it?

In the gloomy morning light of his bedroom, all alone, with nothing but his pounding heartbeat ringing in his ears, Patrick wondered if maybe, he had overestimated himself too much.

 

When Patrick came home from work later, two shopping bags of groceries in his hands (his pride couldn’t take having his household skills being insulted by _Pete_ of all people, again), he had almost managed to shove aside his wary feelings from earlier. The prospect of coming home to someone – _no, even better, coming home to Pete! –_ was much more comfortable. He found both Pete and Brendon in the living room in a friendly argument over some cartoon on TV in the background, and it was almost, it was so _close_ to normal. Patrick allowed himself to pretend for a while.

Another almost normal meal together, another almost normal night with Pete in his bed – safe and secure and just out of reach for him, not close enough, _why is he never close enough?_ – another almost normal morning as Patrick tried not to wonder if Pete had slept at all, tried not to wonder if the shakiness in Pete’s hand as he woke him up came from nervousness, sleep deprivation, or withdrawal.

It didn’t matter. One problem at a time; after work, Patrick actually managed to talk Brendon into letting Pete go grab some fresh clothes from his place. What else Pete got from there, Patrick didn’t ask. A flat iron at least, that much he could tell when Pete came out of the shower with his usual hairstyle again.

While Brendon still had his guard up around Patrick (especially with an absent Pete), they at least managed to bond a little over music, much to Patrick’s relief. As it turned out, the kid had some talent, and a decent voice at that, one that only broke off when Brendon told him about all the lost notebooks of lyrics and compositions he had had to leave behind at his parents’ place, in dark alleyways, or the apartment of his former lover.

Patrick knew talent when he saw it; after all, he was paid to bring out the potential of other people, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much talent the world had lost by treating this kid like garbage. He wondered what the world had lost when it had started to see Pete as nothing but dirt.

Patrick wondered how much of Pete _he_ had lost at the hands of other people, of nameless Johns, of drug dealers and everyone else who had helped to make him miserable.

 

Later that night, Patrick found himself in bed with Pete again, and every sort of worry vanished when a devilish grin appeared on Pete’s lips, when his mouth met Patrick’s for a dirty kiss, when his hands roamed over Patrick’s body. It was hungry and uncoordinated, like teenagers making out in secret, but that had its own charm. At first, Patrick was just glad that Pete didn’t retreat to the far end of the bed like he had done every other night; then, he couldn’t deny that he was longing for even more. Maybe, this was finally the opportunity to bring something up he hadn’t dared to ask for before.

“Pete,” Patrick mumbled softly as he motioned Pete to stop moving for a moment. “Would you… Want to fuck _me_ for a change?”

He heard how Pete took a sharp breath, then let out a small laugh. “Damn, Patrick, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Is that a yes?” Patrick inquired weakly, glad that the gloomy lighting of his bedside lamp hid the intensity of his blush.

“Of course, idiot.” Pete sat up, and before Patrick could overthink it, Pete had guided him to get on all fours. Embarrassment poured into Patrick’s stomach. He felt vulnerable like that, open and exposed and so not like what he was used to with Pete.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” Pete whispered into his ear, dark and dirty, the intensity of his voice making Patrick shudder. “I know you have, I’ve seen the looks you’ve sent me, Patrick…”

Patrick stayed silent, because the answer was obvious. Pete’s hand trailed over his body, which was still something Patrick wasn’t quite used to, something frightening and something that made him insecure with the thought that maybe, they found something they didn’t like. Pete’s mouth trailed over his back, soft lips and a wet tongue.

“Fuck, I’ve thought about it too,” Pete continued in between kisses, “you wanna know what I imagined?”

“Yes,” Patrick said breathlessly. He heard a chuckle from Pete, felt Pete’s hands on his ass and his tongue on the small of his back, on his tailbone, on –

“Pete?” Patrick asked weakly, face burning as Pete’s tongue flickered over his cleft again.

“It’s exactly what you think,” Pete answered. “Wanna eat you out, if you need to have it spelled out.”

“I thought…” Patrick swallowed. “I thought you don’t do this.”

He could hear Pete scoff in annoyance. “It’s not a _service_ I sold as a _hooker_ ,” Pete explained, “but that doesn’t mean _I_ don’t like it.”

“Oh,” Patrick said dumbfounded, another _oh_ escaping him when he felt Pete’s tongue between his cheeks again, and more _ohs_ and _ahs_ when Pete’s tongue licked a broad stripe over his hole, pressed against taught muscles, let every resistance in Patrick melt away. This wasn’t what he had imagined, no, it was even better.

Patrick pressed his face into the pillows, glad he didn’t have to face Pete right now, and glad that it suffocated his slightly pathetic, needy whining. When had someone last done this to him? Patrick couldn’t remember. Even Gabe hadn’t. He felt the tip of a finger against his hole, heard Pete growl “you want?”, and all Patrick could do was moan in acceptance.

Pete pushed his finger in, slowly; it was soon joined by a second, and his tongue. All rational thoughts in Patrick’s brain were drowned out by sheer want and raw desire. He reached for his own dick, careful to just keep it in a light grip, with just a few teasing strokes; he didn’t want to come yet. Though if Pete went on like that, with a hot mouth, clever broad tongue and fingers that, after some trial and error, finally found the center of pleasure inside of him – there was no way Patrick could last much longer.

“Stop it,” Patrick groaned, and turned his head to the side. “Stop it, Pete, or I’m gonna…”

“’kay,” he heard Pete say, and Patrick turned around to lay on his back. Pete reached for the lube and condoms. “What now, sweet Patrick? Tell me what you want.”

“More of everything,” Patrick mumbled, “two fingers and spit aren’t enough.”

“Depends on who you ask. Certain customers of mine would have disagreed.” Pete shrugged as he slicked up his fingers. “Personally, I am all for lube,” he said in a light tone, as if this was just an ordinary conversation, “but just two fingers – hm, I do like the stretch sometimes...”

“Can we talk about this another time?” Patrick asked weakly, “and, uhm. It’s been a while for me. I don’t like to bottom very often, and I can’t take dick that easily.”

“No shame in that,” Pete said with another shrug, then rested two fingers against Patrick’s hole. “You ready?”

Patrick nodded, relieved at how easily Pete’s fingers slid back into him. Pete reached for his dick, but Patrick pushed his hand away. “Don’t”, he mumbled, “I’ll come.”

“Really,” Pete said with a chuckle, and Patrick groaned when a third finger entered him, felt the familiar burning stretch already.

“’m not good at holding back when I bottom,” Patrick managed to gasp out between two moans. “And I – oh, Pete, _fuck_!” The rest of the sentence was lost when Pete’s fingers found his prostate again, and Patrick couldn’t help but push back on his fingers, greedy for more.

“Enough,” Patrick said through gritted teeth, “please fuck me.”

“You don’t have to beg either,” Pete said with a chuckle as he rolled the condom over himself – Patrick suspected that Pete wouldn’t let go of the habit of handling the condoms himself anytime soon – and spread more lube over his cock.

It was weird at first, like always, a burn and a short struggle as Patrick tried to adjust to someone inside of him. Pete wasn’t as big as Gabe, but he still felt like a lot to take. Pete’s lower lip was caught between his teeth, brows furrowed in concentration as he bottomed out. He leaned forward for a kiss, though Patrick turned his head away.

“Not on the mouth,” Patrick hissed, “you just stuck your tongue in my ass.”

“Goddamn squeamish for a man who used to kiss and lick all over some dirty hooker’s body,” Pete scoffed, but he planted a kiss on Patrick’s temple anyway. Pete’s fingers were playing with his nipples, wandered over Patrick’s body in hasty, eager movements, as if Pete couldn’t decide which part he wanted to touch first. A whine escaped Patrick’s throat when Pete’s hand reached his cock; he had been aching to be touched for a while now. Pete started to stroke him in a slow pace, and Patrick felt himself loosen up, felt how everything fell into place.

“Move,” he blurted out, and Pete did; slowly at first, though Patrick’s moans encouraged him to go harder with each thrust.

Patrick wrapped his legs around Pete’s hips, shifted his position a little, and then Pete managed to hit just the right spot to make Patrick see stars. Pete’s hand on his cock, Pete inside of him, Pete looking at him with undisguised need and arousal, it was all too much. Each thrust brought Patrick closer to the edge, and he couldn’t hold back a steady stream of embarrassing noises falling from his lips. He tried to suffocate them with his hand, only to have it pushed away by Pete.

“Wanna hear you,” Pete growled, “be loud for me.”

If Patrick were more coherent, he would’ve had a snarky reply. For now, all he had was another moan. Pete pushed harder into him, his cock dragging against Patrick’s prostate in a brilliant, maddening way that was so much and yet just on the edge of not enough. But with Pete’s hand working his cock, Patrick knew there was no way he was going to last any longer.

“Pete,” he gasped, “fuck, I’ll come already if you don’t stop…”

“Good,” Pete groaned, “good, Patrick, that’s it, come for me…!”

All worries about not lasting long enough, all fears about being overstimulated afterwards and repeating the embarrassing experience with Gabe went right out the window with these words. All that was left in Patrick’s brain was Pete’s touches, burning and making him shiver, Pete’s cock buried deep inside of him, hitting his prostate once, twice, and then Patrick came, stuttering nonsense against Pete’s lips as he forgot every objection over kisses on the mouth. All that mattered was the delicious sense of release, hot and intense and drowning out everything. He felt himself tighten around Pete’s cock, heard Pete whimper as he thrusted into him one last time before stopping.

Once his orgasm wore off, Patrick felt tired and exhausted, and pleasure all too soon turned into aching uncomfortableness. Pete pulled out, and Patrick winced – had Pete even come? Just as Patrick wanted to apologize, his brain supplied how he had heard that telltale whimper, how Pete had stopped moving before Patrick had had any chance to signal him to stop, and the expression Pete wore was the same satisfied sense of bliss always present after an orgasm.

“You already…” Patrick mumbled; he had been too caught up in his own orgasm to realize at first. And he knew he had barely lasted for a few minutes, so he hadn’t expected Pete to come that soon as well.

“Yeah,” Pete groaned as he sat up. He carefully got the condom off his dick, held it up like a trophy and sent Patrick a wink. “Just to show you I’m not lying.”

“Pete, that’s _gross_ ,” Patrick sneered, “I’m not one of your clients. I believe you, and I’m pretty sure I know when you come without inspecting a condom.”

Pete rolled his eyes, and Patrick wanted to pull him closer, wanted to hug him, wanted to hold him close and just cuddle, but Pete had already gotten out of the bed, and was out of the bedroom before Patrick had the strength to object.

With a deep sigh, Patrick just rolled to his side. He felt wet and weird between his legs, slightly sore and mostly, his heart ached the longer he lay alone.

After a while, he heard the bedroom door shut, announcing that Pete was back. “Turn around,” he heard Pete say, “I got something for you.”

Patrick did as he was told, and when he saw Pete with a washcloth and a towel, he couldn’t help but raise his brows.

“You’re right. You’re not one of my clients, so I’m not going to treat you like one,” Pete said as he sat down on the bed. “Let me clean you up?”

All of his former gloomy thoughts momentarily forgotten, Patrick couldn’t help but smile and nod. Pete went to clean him up with a concentrated face, carefully and with gentle hands. The _hooker_ never would’ve cared; the _hooker_ never would’ve offered this, Patrick knew. It made the gesture even sweeter.

Pete sighed a little. “I’m glad you didn’t ask for this when I was your hooker. I’m glad you let _me_ give this to you.”

“You came pretty fast,” Patrick observed, which earned him a scoff from Pete.

“Says the right one. But, yeah. It’s been a while for me, too. Not many people paid me to stick my dick in their asses, so I haven’t topped that much in – well, since what feels like forever.” Pete rubbed away the sticky residue of cum on Patrick’s stomach, and Patrick decided to stop speaking and just enjoy the feeling of being taken care of.

“Why can’t you let me do this for you?” Patrick mumbled afterwards. “Why must you always flee the bed as soon as possible? Why did you say you feel gross after sex with me yesterday? Why do you always rush to the bathroom afterwards?”

“Look, Patrick, I do that it because the aftermath of sex, it reminds me…” Pete took a deep breath, but despite everything, continued: “It reminds me of standing on a cold street, laying on the backseat of a car, being in a cheap motel room with some asshole thinking he fucking _owns_ me because he pressed some dollar bills into my hand. It reminds me of nothing but awful memories. Do you know how fucking disgusting it is to have someone else spit on you, to have them rub their gross sweaty body all over you, to have someone’s cum running down your thighs as you try not to cry because God knows if that asshole has given you HIV or any other STD, do you know what it’s like to just feel _dirty_?”

“No,” Patrick mumbled with shame. “No, I don’t.”

“Right.” Pete sat down next to him, but his anger seemed to have vanished. “I can’t wash the feeling off of me, but still, having the luxury to clean myself up after sex is a nice thing.”

For a while, neither of them said anything.

“Do you know what it’s like to want to touch someone so badly but you just can’t, because your sick brain gives you nothing but anxiety?” Pete laughed a little. “Well. I guess you partially know what I’m talking about, hm?”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered again.

“I want to be good for you, Patrick,” Pete said helplessly, but right here, right now, these words didn’t sound as confident or promising as when the hooker had said them. “I want to be good for you, I want to be normal, I want to give you everything you want, I promise! I just…”

“It’s okay,” Patrick whispered, not really because it was okay, but because there was nothing else to say. He closed his eyes, and felt Pete’s hand on his face, thumb running over his lips, fingers trailing over his cheek.

“Hey, Patrick. Turn around for me, would you?”

Patrick did as he was told, even though he was slightly irritated. Did Pete want even more distance between them?

“Don’t move, okay?” Pete continued, and despite his rising annoyance, Patrick mumbled a _yes_.

Then, suddenly, he felt all of Pete at once – Pete’s arms slung around him, Pete’s leg thrown over his thighs, Pete’s chest flush against his back, and Pete’s hot breath ghosting over his neck. The hug was stiff and awkward, too tense, too nervous; but Patrick stayed silent, didn’t move just as Pete had requested, and after a while, Pete gradually relaxed. Patrick felt soft kisses planted on his neck, Pete’s hand on his own, lacing their fingers together, and heard Pete sigh in contentment as the last bit of tension vanished from his posture.

Again, it wasn’t like Patrick had imagined it. In all his fantasies, he’d been the one to hold Pete close. But being held by Pete felt so natural, so good, so comforting and hopeful and when Pete squeezed his hand, Patrick wanted to cry and laugh all at once.

“I haven’t always been this way.” Pete’s voice sounded thoughtful and melancholic. “I used to love it. I was such a touchy person. Hugging and kissing and squabbling, I did that a lot, to many people’s annoyance. I wasn’t shy. I wasn’t _scared_. I don’t know when I lost that part of me.”

Patrick stayed silent, because there wasn’t anything to say. There wasn’t an answer or an easy solution, maybe there wasn’t a solution at all. Maybe, parts of Pete were lost forever, washed away with time, drained out of him, destroyed by greedy hands and white little pills and dark nights full of sadness.

“I’m just so glad,” Patrick stuttered, and it was difficult to hold back a sob. “So glad to have you here, so glad we got Brendon with us, so glad, Pete – despite everything, I’m _happy_. I never want to miss that feeling again. I never want to miss _you_ again.”

He heard Pete laugh a little, warm and ugly and the best sound ever. “Happy,” Pete repeated softly, before he leaned over; Patrick turned his face, and their lips met for a sweet little kiss. Pete rested his head against Patrick’s, pulled him closer, and laughed again. “Yeah, me too, Patrick.”

It was the best thing Patrick had ever heard him say.

From the bottom of his heart, he felt himself fall in love with Pete even more. It was hope and joy, it was crying and laughing and utter relief. It was pain and anger and wounds that may never heal; it was sharp and dangerous and uncertainty. It was intense, and it was goddamn scary.

But it was _Pete_ , and Patrick wouldn’t have traded this for anything else in this world.

 _Happy_ … Oh, Patrick wished that would be the future for them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Pete stays, everyone! That can only mean good things. Right?
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr and if you like the story, please reblog the art, it would mean a lot!


	14. Nowhere Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to the penultimate chapter - gasp, I know! I can't believe it either!
> 
> As always, thanks to Snitches for beta reading, and her awesome support!
> 
> And as always, enjoy the stories and the visuals! ;)

 

 

 

 

 

Pete was awoken by a gentle hand on his shoulder, and a familiar voice calling his name. Confusion made Pete groan and open his eyes as he tried to grasp the situation. When was the last time he had woken up next to someone? It had never happened with clients, and otherwise… Well, otherwise, Pete hadn’t had much human interaction. And in the past few days, what little sleep he had managed to grab had been few and far between, always snatched at some ungodly hour when everyone else had long since fallen asleep.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” he heard Patrick say, as he sat next to him on the mattress, “but, uhm, you said you wanted to meet your friend today? Andy? I thought you might like some breakfast first, and have some time to get ready.”

Pete let out another groan, unwilling to leave the comfort of the bed, and the comfort of having Patrick in it. He placed his head in Patrick’s lap, hoped that the slight frown on his face made the gesture look less desperate than it really was.

There was a small laugh from Patrick, warm and promising. Had he ever heard Patrick laugh properly? Pete couldn’t remember. He dropped the thought when Patrick’s hand caressed his face, then gently carded through his hair. “One more minute,” Patrick said with false sternness, his authority further undermined when Pete thought about how little of a morning person Patrick himself was. At least, judging from what little he had seen of that so far.

Was that what his mornings would be like from now on? A shared bed, a shared smile, a shared life? It seemed surreal. Too good to be true. _Too easy_ , Pete’s paranoia chimed in, _all of this is too easy_.

There would be more, Pete knew – there would be hectic time schedules that didn’t match up, there would be fights and annoyances, there would be nights when Patrick was asleep while Pete had nothing but insomnia to keep him company. There would be nights full of Pete’s old demons, of paranoia and anxiety and pointless babbling, crying, screaming. All the ugly sides he’d never wanted anyone to see, all the difficulties that had been so much easier to ignore when he didn’t have to burden someone else with it. What would Patrick think? What would Patrick do? Would he regret his decision to let a former hooker from the street invade his life? Pete could feel all these anxious thoughts clawing at his chest.

And yet, weirdly enough, all of that couldn’t drown out the feeling of comfort and something like safety, calmness, hope. Emotions that Pete hadn’t felt in a long time; he was almost surprised that his brain was still capable of producing them. But right here, with Patrick comforting him, when he was still all warm and sleepy, with daylight finding its way through the opened curtains, the nightmares almost faded away.

“Come on, Pete,” he heard Patrick mumble, “there’s pancakes for breakfast.”

“Where the fuck did _those_ come from?” Pete scoffed, still unwilling to move.

“Hey, I _did_ go grocery shopping. Brendon is making them,” Patrick explained, “Apparently, he can cook, they look pretty good so far. I think… He still feels guilty about not paying me, or whatever. Guess this is his form of giving back. Well, I let him, because quite frankly, another offer for a blowjob from him would freak me the hell out.”

“You better not let anyone else blow you ever, anyway.” Pete groaned as he sat up. “You’re _mine_ , right? I’m the only one who’s allowed to do that from now on,” he couldn’t help but add snottily, with a certain sense of jealousy creeping up on him.

Patrick tilted his head. “You’re pretty possessive, aren’t you.”

Pete shrugged, though nothing about this was just easily disregarded. “Does it bother you?”

“I guess I just didn’t expect that from a hooker – _former_ hooker, I guess.”

“How’s that related in any way?” Pete couldn’t help but scoff as he felt venom seeping into his voice. “Being a hooker is a _job_ , not a personality trait, asshole. I have feelings, and just because I sold sex doesn’t mean I would be okay with cheating.” Pete shook his head. “Well, I guess plenty of people cheated with _me_ on their wives or whoever, but…”

“Hey. It’s okay,” Patrick mumbled. He looked a little helpless, and Pete realized again that Patrick had been playing a role, too – the one of a self-assured, confident customer, one who was fine with just buying sex with no strings attached. A role that became as much of a lie as Pete’s had become. The real Patrick was someone else. “I’m sorry for saying something stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Pete said with regret replacing the former jealousy. “I mean, that part about being possessive was true.”

“I figured.” Patrick sighed. “You weren’t always subtle about it back when… You know. I just thought it was part of the act…”

“It was part of the act for everyone but you,” Pete whispered. “At some point... It wasn’t _performance_ anymore. I told myself it was for wanting to beat you in this game, that I did it for the money, but the truth was that it was because I wanted _you_. And I wanted you all to myself.”

A small smile tugged at Patrick’s lips, and Pete decided it was best to place his head back in Patrick’s lap. He deeply regretted ever starting this unnecessary fight. _Should’ve kept my mouth shut and just kissed him, like a normal person would have done_.  

Normal – fuck, Pete didn’t know when that had last applied to him, or his life, anyway.

“It’s been a few days,” Patrick remarked cautiously. “But no cops or anything… I think we’re safe from that, right?”

“I guess so,” Pete answered, and he heard Patrick sigh in relief.

A heavenly minute of just blissful comfortable silence followed, where there weren’t any stupid words or arguments, just Patrick’s hand and the warmth of a shared bed. It couldn’t last, of course, the day went on despite Pete’s wishes, but at least he snagged a kiss from Patrick before they had to leave the bed.

 

Three people sitting at a table, having a warm breakfast – that was normal, right?

 

“I looked for a clinic,” Patrick said between two bites, “the one I picked out isn’t too far from here.” A heavy-hearted, deep breath, then Patrick continued: “Well… I guess we all have to get tested. Just to make sure.”

“You should be safe, unless you fucked that other hooker without a condom.” Pete shrugged as he tried his best to hold back further pointless banter. He noticed Brendon’s silence; he didn’t seem thrilled at all, but fear and obedience for authority must’ve won out.

“We’re getting tested,” Patrick repeated sternly.

“What if we’re sick?” Brendon asked the question Pete had been too afraid to ask. “I don’t have money, I don’t have insurance or whatever – I don’t even know how any of this works! What if I’m sick already… What if I’m HIV positive, what if I have AIDS? I don’t want to be a danger to anyone, and I don’t – shit, I don’t want to die!”

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” Patrick mumbled as he awkwardly patted Brendon’s shoulder. “No one is going to die.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Pete couldn’t help but say. It earned him a grim look from Patrick, who seemed like he was on the verge of snapping.

“I’m trying my best here,” Patrick said through gritted teeth. “I’m not exactly prepared for all of this either, okay? Cut me some slack.”

Pete stayed silent as he watched Patrick’s further attempts of comforting the still agitated Brendon. He spoke in a soft voice as he tried to calm the boy down, and in the light of the day, in front of these stupid pancakes and glimpsing behind the veil of sex and customer interaction, it dawned on Pete that yeah, this wasn’t the life Patrick must have had planned out.

Patrick was still young enough to be full of optimism, to dream of – of what, exactly? Suburban houses with a white picket fence, a puppy, and a happy family? Certainly not aging hookers and troublesome teens.

With a sigh, Pete pushed back his chair, and stood up. Half his food was still on his plate, which made Patrick send him another helpless look, but Pete had lost all appetite. Not that there was much of it left these days in the first place.

 

Before he left, Patrick caught him in the hallway, a concerned look on his face. “You good?” He asked quietly, despite knowing the answer couldn’t be yes.

“I’m nervous,” Pete whispered as he rested his head on Patrick’s shoulders, and he couldn’t help but sigh a little in relief when that got Patrick to hug him. Asking for this kind of reassurance was something Pete hated, and he wasn’t sure how the dependence on someone else made him feel yet. “I haven’t seen Andy in so long, and… I’ve been a pretty shitty friend, Patrick. What if he hates me?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t meet up with you just to tell you he hates you. Go show him you want to accept the chance he has to offer, and I’m sure it’ll work out.” Patrick sounded secure in what he said, and Pete decided to believe him. It was just easier that way.

Pete fisted his hands into Patrick’s shirt, and with a surprised sound from Patrick, Pete pressed him against the wall, and pressed their lips together. After a moment of confusion, Patrick melted into the kiss, let Pete’s hand wander under his shirt, and he even moaned a little when Pete’s knee pressed between his legs. Triumph flooded Pete’s brain; even if things went wrong with Andy, at least _this_ he could do right.

“Enough,” Patrick gasped between two kisses. “Enough, Pete. We can continue this later, okay?”

“You’re terribly easy, you know that?” Pete said with a smug grin, the one he knew Patrick adored despite the eyeroll. It got Patrick to blush a little, too; why couldn’t everything else be this simple?

“Go,” Patrick said in a firm voice that was belied by his smile, and the semi he tried to hide unsuccessfully.

“I’ll be a good boy for you,” Pete whispered, because hiding his true intentions and emotions behind terrible but well-practiced lines was just so much easier. “The best boy, just for you, sweet Patrick.”

Patrick just shook his head, and shoved the spare keys into Pete’s hands. “ _Go._ ”

“No goodbye kiss?” Pete inquired with a fake pout.

“We just kissed, idiot.” Patrick shook his head again, but this time, with less sadness in his smile. “Whatever. C’mere.”

To his satisfaction, Pete got the kiss. He liked getting things he wanted, especially from Patrick. It made him feel like he had at least a little bit of control left.

“Just to clarify,” Patrick said afterwards, “I may kiss you goodbye, but only because I expect you to come back, okay?”

“I’ll always come back,” Pete replied with a small smile. It would have been romantic if not for the doubts and the hurt in Patrick’s eyes, if not for the fact that Pete had nowhere else to go anyway, if not for how weak and dependent these words made Pete feel.

The door fell shut behind Pete, and he wondered why even the truths he had to offer to Patrick all had to be so goddamn sad.

 

The café they were supposed to meet up was in a better part of town, and of course, it fulfilled all the requirements Andy still must hold onto – vegan and cruelty-free, fair trade and supporting charity, it screamed ambitions and moral goodness from the wooden interior to the three different sorts of milk substitutes that Pete couldn’t care less for. He ordered black coffee and found a table, realizing he was too early despite having a smoke outside of the café before he entered. Old Pete would’ve let Andy wait for half an hour, then waltzed into the café half-hungover and unshowered.

Pete sighed and looked at his hands resting in his lap. Old Pete had been an asshole, but at least he had been _someone_ ; Pete wasn’t sure what or who he was anymore.

“You showed up.”

A calm voice that, despite the words said, kept its steady tone and showed no surprise. The tattooed hand of the voice’s owner placed a mug opposite to Pete’s, and when Pete looked up, Andy had already taken a seat.

For a while, neither of them said anything. It was an uncomfortable silence, heavy with unsaid words and the years that had gone by.

Andy looked different then Pete remembered, with a beard and short hair, no glasses, no nerdiness left. A shirt from a gym, revealing arms that were a lot more toned and with even more ink than Pete could recall. Andy had his own battles, Andy had his own demons, and it was apparent he had his own way to fight those, with hours upon hours he must spend at the gym, with colorful reminders that life was worth living etched forever into each available inch of his body.

“You look terrible, Pete.” There wasn’t any maliciousness in these words, they were as neutral as the look Andy sent him.

Suddenly self-conscious, Pete pulled down the sleeves of his hoodie over his arms. He knew that some of his tattoos were in desperate need to be touched up, that some of the ink on his body just looked faded and sad, a shadow of its former glory. In front of Andy’s impeccable body art, Pete felt even worse about them. He tugged at the sleeves again, only to realize it was Patrick’s hoodie he was wearing – too big, worn out, letting him look even more pathetic.

“I guess it’s redundant to ask where you’ve been all this time?” It was a question, one they both knew the answer to already. “It’s not important right now, is it? I’m not going to ask, Pete, so you can relax.”

Pete nodded, but kept quiet. The tension outshined the awkwardness, but that didn’t make it any better.

“I just want to know why,” Andy continued, with just a hint of frustration shining through the calm façade. “Why are you here, Pete? Why, after all this goddamn time, did you decide to show up again? I thought – we thought… No one knew anything! Your goddamn _parents_ , do you know how often they’ve called me, how often I had to explain to them that I had no idea where their son is?”

Andy paused, presumably to give Pete a chance to speak up. But Pete had nothing. No words to offer that could defuse the situation, no polished lies or convenient truth that could excuse anything he put everyone through.

“Why are you here, Pete?” Andy repeated in a low voice, hands folded on the table, yet somehow more menacing than if he had uttered an open threat. “More importantly, why am _I_ here? Tell me why I shouldn’t just leave right now.”

“Please don’t.” Before Pete had time to think, he found his hand clutching Andy’s. “Don’t leave, Andy, please – whatever it takes, just please don’t leave.” It was pathetic, and embarrassment burned on Pete’s face; mostly, because he meant every word he had said.

 

“Mighty words coming from you of all people.” Andy sighed, but he didn’t withdraw his hands. “Answer my question, Pete.”

“I’m done,” Pete said quietly, and he meant it, too. “I’m done with everything, and – that’s why I need to get back into a regular life.”

“You? Regular life? Since when do you want _that_?” Andy sighed again, and Pete felt his desperation growing.

“Andy, things happened and I’m… I’m not where I used to be anymore. There’s someone I like, and there’s – there’s the kid I have to care for…”

“What the fuck, Pete?” Andy raised his brows, and real anger seeped into his voice. “A _kid_? Fuck, don’t tell me _you_ of all people got someone pregnant –“

“No!” Pete hurried to interrupt him. “No, God, no. I didn’t mean it that way. And the kid – well, he’s eighteen, so I guess it’s not really fair to call him that. But he has no one else, and I… I’ll have to take some responsibility. It’s a long story, okay?”

“Please tell me that teen and the someone you like aren’t the same people,” Andy said weakly, and Pete couldn’t help but feel guilty. He knew that back in the days, he hadn’t been the most responsible with relationships. Fuck, his old self probably gladly would’ve screwed a starry-eyed Brendon over, only to dump him when it got too boring.

How things had changed; and it had only taken years of abuse to realize. Pete hoped the price he had paid was worth the bitter realizations.

“They’re two different people, Andy. I’m not… That isn’t me anymore.” Pete took a deep breath, and continued: “The kid’s name is Brendon. Let’s just say I got him out of a terrible situation, but he’s still not in a good place. Look, Andy, I may have ruined my life, but Brendon is still young, he looks up to me, and shit, I can’t be –“ _a hooker from the street_ , Pete almost said, “I can’t be who I was anymore. He deserves something better than that.”

 

Andy stayed silent for a moment. “That’s weirdly responsible of you,” he observed after a while. “No offence, Pete, but that’s not what I expected.”

“You and me both,” Pete said with a small smile. “And yet, here I am. And don’t worry, I like a _guy,_ so no one is getting pregnant anytime soon.”

Andy shrugged, but didn’t take back his words. Pete couldn’t blame him, given the shit his friend had seen him do, given whatever Andy’s imagination might have filled the gaps between them with.

“So, you’re serious?” Andy asked instead, with caution in his eyes. “How come?”

“I _am_ serious,” Pete replied, “I am, because…” Because why? Pete broke off, and swallowed the words that had wormed their way into his brain, a terrible, terrifying realization. _Because otherwise, I’ll be dead; because if I don’t try, I’m going to fucking die_.

Because otherwise, Brendon’s pimp would find him – the workplaces for a street hooker were limited, after all – and next time, Pete knew he wasn’t going to get away that easily. Because otherwise, a much less forgiving police officer may arrest him, and Pete knew he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance in prison, ever. Because otherwise, on a lonely night back at the shitty place he rented, a handful of pills could look all too tempting. Because otherwise, Pete would lose Brendon and Patrick forever, and what was life worth living then? Because –

“Hey.” Andy’s voice brought him back to reality. “It’s okay, Pete. I believe you.”

Pete knew he didn’t deserve it, he knew Andy’s life would be much easier if he just walked out now, Pete wasn’t worth of any charity and good will, and –

“Pete.”

Pete felt his coffee cup pressed into his hand, as Andy continued talking.

“Drink, and calm down. I’m here because no matter what happened, I believe you, Pete, and… I just want to see you happy again.”

“I need a job,” Pete blurted out, before his thoughts could dwell on the terrifying question of when he had last been happy. “I need a job, Andy. But, as you know… I have nothing but a high school diploma and a criminal record back from when they caught me with drugs. Who’s gonna hire me? I swear I’m not picky, I don’t give a fuck what job I get, it just needs to be something. It can’t be worse than –“ Pete interrupted himself, as shame rose inside of him. _Can’t be worse than being a hooker_. He wasn’t sure how many rumors there had been, if anyone knew what path of illegal work Pete had been doing in the past years.

If Andy knew anything, he had the decency not to bring it up.

“I’m the owner of a record store,” he said instead. “We could use someone to help out.”

That suited Andy. Without knowing the store, Pete bet that it was full of underground up and coming bands that no one knew yet, selling all sorts of local political punk acts and whatever else Andy’s music scene had to offer.

“I’m earning good money with my band, The Damned Things – oh, you probably don’t know… I’ll fill you in another time. But it’s not going to last.” Andy pointed towards his wrist. “Carpal tunnel. Already getting cortisone shots on this side. You know I’ll drum until the day my body gives up, but… it seems that day may come sooner than expected. And I want to be prepared for when making music won’t be possible anymore. At least, I want to be able to support other people’s music.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete said quietly. Andy had been the most talented person he knew, and knowing that talent was about to be lost in the upcoming years was depressing. Suddenly, all the ink and efforts in the gym seemed less like smug self-importance, and more like a way to find meaning in an unforgiving world.

“Don’t be. Just tell me if you’re interested in the job. It won’t pay much, but it’s a start.”

“I’m _excellent_ at customer service,” Pete said with a generous amount of self-deprecation. “Working in a record store… The last refuge of the failed mediocre artist, right?”

Andy narrowed his eyes. “You’re too good for it then?”

“If you’re giving me this chance, I’ll take it. If anything, the job is too good for _me_.” Pete took another sip of his now lukewarm coffee. When had he last been at a concert? Too long ago. When was the last time he had even listened to music? At Patrick’s, probably. He was so out of the loop, so detached from what had been going on in the world, it would take a while to catch up with everything.

“I am,” Andy said, but his narrowed eyes stayed fixed on Pete. “I’ll give you a chance, but that’s it, Pete, _one chance_ – if you fuck up, that’s it.”

All Pete could do was nod and accept.

“I’ll give you my phone number and some details,” Andy said as he searched his pockets for a pen and paper. Gym shorts, matching his shirt, as Pete noticed; and there was more ink on Andy’s legs than last time Pete had seen them. “You owe me, Pete, big time, and not only me. You know I hate to mess around with other people’s business, but you’re going to call your parents as soon as possible, and you’re going to answer my questions – not now, not today, but one day. Those are my conditions for helping you.”

“Okay,” Pete mumbled as he watched Andy scribble down a number, then an address. “What’s that for?”

“It’s the nearest meeting of NA,” Andy said casually.

“You just happen to know the address of the nearest Narcotics Anonymous by heart?” Pete said weakly as he watched Andy neatly underline it.

“I’ve been waiting to give this to you for _years_ , Pete. I’m not going to stand by and watch you drown more Ativan or God knows what than is possibly healthy.” Pete felt the piece of paper shoved into his hands. “I _know_ , Pete. We may not have seen each other for a while, but I _know_. You’re going. If you’re not willing to make that effort, don’t bother showing up for the job training at all.”

Again, all Pete could do was nod as he carefully tucked the paper into the pocket of his jeans.

Andy pressed his lips into a thin line, then shook his head. “And call your parents, asshole. At least let your siblings know you’re alive and – yeah, maybe not _well_ , but alive nonetheless.”

Pete got up as well, and before he knew it, Andy had pulled him into a somewhat awkward, but heartfelt hug. “Pete, I’m ready to be your friend again,” he heard Andy say softly, “but I’m not ready to lose you a second time.” It was more than Pete felt he deserved, and it was terrifying to hear such words from Andy.

“You won’t,” Pete mumbled, though he could only hope his words were true.

 

Once they parted ways, Pete headed for his old apartment block. Patrick had offered his help, but Pete had declined. It wasn’t like there was much to get: Pete owned nothing of value, what little furniture he had was shit, and there was nothing he was sentimental about. The place could burn to the ground for all he cared.

He kept his head down as he walked up the staircase, avoiding eye contact with some of the other tenants. To his surprise, the door was still intact, and no one had robbed him – that wasn’t a given considering Pete had been away for days. Still, his place was a goddamn mess. In light of the day and after having spent all this time at Patrick’s, it felt even more pathetic. Old and run-down and cold; anything but home.

He wasn’t happy that even for a shitty job, he had had to rely on nepotism and Andy’s connections. It was humiliating to be so dependent on someone else, and Pete couldn’t deny part of him hated feeling so inferior to Patrick in every regard, too.  

What little money he had saved was still in his usual hiding spot; it wasn’t much, but Pete was relieved nonetheless. He had saved it for bad times, really bad times, and he knew that he mostly had saved it for pills. Well, with the paper Andy gave him burning in the pocket of his jeans, no way he was going to use the money for _that_ anymore.

With a heavy sigh, Pete sat down on the mattress. He spared a glance at the mess of clothes, wondering why he had come back for those. Most of them were for work, and Pete never wanted to wear any of it ever again. Never, never ever would he dress like that for someone else’s amusement.

Would Patrick like him in normal jeans and a shitty faded band shirt? Would Patrick like him without make up and a tight pair of pants? Would Patrick like him at 3AM in the morning when Pete woke him up because he couldn’t keep the panic at bay? Would Patrick like him? Would Pete be good enough? Good enough? Good enough -?

“Look who we’ve got here,” a voice interrupted Pete’s thoughts. “A little bird told me you finally showed up again.”

Pete cursed his bad luck. It was his landlord of all people, and Pete cursed whatever asshole had ratted him out to the guy.

“You’re behind on rent. Two months now.” Of course, as always, that bastard showed up when he smelled a chance to get his money. “You haven’t been here for a while, and I don’t give a fuck what you did, but whatever it was, I hope it got you the money to pay up. Don’t think you can just weasel your way out of it.”

“I got it,” Pete said through gritted teeth as he reached for his backpack. Sucked that he had to waste some of his meager savings, but better than buying drugs, Pete tried to half-heartedly tell himself. And what else was there to do?

 

Apparently, the guy was more than eager to remind Pete of the alternative.

 

Before Pete could even get out the cash, he was pressed back into the mattress, before he could object, he felt a heavy weight on top of him and two hands snaking around his wrists. Pure anger flooded Pete; what kept people thinking it was okay to treat him like this?

“Let me go,” Pete hissed, voice shaking from humiliation. _I shouldn’t have to beg for this_. “I said I got the money.”

“Really,” came the answer, seemingly disinterested in this information. “We could just solve this problem like we always do, sweetheart. Let me fuck you, and if you give me a good ride, I’ll forget about it.”

Bile rose in Pete’s throat at the words. Weird, really. It wasn’t the first time they’d come to such an arrangement. It wasn’t the first time the guy had held him down – with less clothes, usually – on this very same mattress. In fact, hadn’t Pete once been relieved that he could just trade rent for a blowjob or sex? Hadn’t he thought he was so clever, so smug, so above his slimy landlord? Just another job. Who was the real fool here?

Right now, Pete felt like that was him.

“I got the money,” Pete repeated slowly. There was no way he could get his hands free, and even if he wasn’t being held down, what difference would that make? His landlord was one foot taller and twice his size; Pete knew from bitter experience that he didn’t have much of a chance against someone like him. He was small and skinny and scared, and if people wanted something from him, Pete had learned it was no use to fight, that it was just easier to give in instead of making everything worse with futile resistance.

Besides, it had been nothing but pure luck that he got away so easily from beating up Brendon’s pimp. Pete wasn’t about to try his luck twice.

“I’m making you a good offer,” the man said in a low voice. “I know the rates a _whore_ like you charges. I’m being _generous_ , dumbass. Two months’ rent could buy me your body more than once out on the street. Two months’ rent, how many dicks do you have to suck for that? Just say yes and we can get this over with.”

 

Pete couldn’t say no. _No_ , that had been a word long eradicated from his vocabulary. It was all _yes_ and _please_ and _thanks_ , and every _no_ or _don’t_ or _stop_ usually got him nothing but trouble, so Pete had stopped saying those.

Pete couldn’t say no.

But for the first time in a long time, Pete just couldn’t bring himself to say yes, either.

 

“I said I’d pay you,” Pete hissed. “Get off of me. I’m not for sale right now.” _Not now, and not ever again_ , but Pete deemed it safer to not let that be known. The prospect of a potential next time may have been all there was that held the guy back from just straight up… _Taking_ it.

The following seconds seemed to last an eternity, but Pete kept a straight face, despite the fear raging in him, despite his aching wrists reminding him of that one shithead not too long ago who hadn’t given a single fuck about Pete’s desperate pleas.

“Fine.” Slowly, his landlord let go, and stood up, with nothing but contempt in his eyes. He grabbed Pete’s chin, forced him to look up as he let his thumb run over Pete’s lips.

“Next time, and I _know_ there’ll be a next time with whores like you, that sweet mouth of yours won’t be used to talk me out of taking what you owe me.”

 _Owe me_? What a fucking joke that was. Pete wanted to bite down on the finger until this bastard’s bones splintered. He didn’t. Instead, the guy let go of him, and Pete handed him the cash without looking up again.

Pete didn’t dare to move. He heard the door fall shut, heard footsteps going down the stairs, but he waited a few more minutes just to make sure the man wasn’t coming back. With trembling legs, Pete dragged himself to the shared bathroom in the hallway, and knelt before the toilet. He threw up what little he had in his stomach, until there was nothing but bile and blood. Cold sweat and hot tears were streaming down his face, his whole body was shaking, but when Pete was finally done spitting the last bit of red bile into the cracked toilet bowl, he felt a tiny bit better.

The paper was still tucked into the pockets of his pants, a burning reminder. Pete still swallowed a pill, and then a second one. He couldn’t go cold turkey, he just couldn’t.

 

Despite trying his best at cleaning himself up a little, Pete knew he still looked like hell when he finally stumbled through the door of Patrick’s apartment. Patrick’s alarmed look only confirmed this, and Pete felt even worse when Brendon almost panicked again at the sight.  

 _Dysfunctional. Broken. A nuisance. Nothing but trouble._ The guilt was overwhelming.

“Can I just take a bath?” Pete asked in a shaky voice, and he hated how weak he sounded, he hated the concern in Patrick’s eyes, he hated everything and especially himself.

“We’ll talk later,” Patrick mumbled as he nodded, and Pete had to grit his teeth to not scream at him. He was done with talking, he was so fucking _done_ with talking, he was done with being ill and sick and an invalid, he just felt so done with everything and he hated how he had nothing but broken pieces of himself to offer to Patrick.

Not long after, Pete sat in the bathtub, alone, and never had he been more thankful for a bathroom that didn’t need to be shared with five other parties. The water that came out of the faucet was scalding hot, enough to leave Pete’s skin as a red-streaked mess as he held his wrists underneath, but it just felt too good to stop.

Through the closed door and even over the running water, Pete could hear Patrick and Brendon in the living room, heard the guitar and their voices in between, too far away to be more than a dull whisper though. Pete’s heart ached at the thought of two people, both way too good for him, being so trusting, so dependent on _him_ of all people. It was all so much, maybe too much, and fear filled Pete’s eyes with tears. At least, there was nothing in his stomach left to vomit up anymore.

Eventually, Pete started to shiver in the cooling water. He watched it go down the drain, then got up to get dressed. There were a few of his old clothes he had taken with him, the ones that looked the most normal, but he settled for wearing Patrick’s hoodie instead. Sentimental? Stupid? Probably, but Pete couldn’t bring himself to care.

Once he was dressed, he joined Patrick and Brendon in the living room. He sat down next to Patrick, leaned his head on his shoulder. Pete shook his head when Brendon stopped playing and sent him a questioning look.

“Just keep going.”

Patrick held an expensive looking guitar in his hands as well, though he wasn’t playing. It dawned on Pete that he had never heard Patrick play anything. How weird. Then again, _hookers_ weren’t the right audience to be serenaded with music. Would he get to see that side of Patrick? The musician, the composer, the everything that he was beyond the limited role of a client? Pete hoped so. He wanted Patrick, all of him, he wanted it so badly.

Patrick gently rested the instrument in his lap, then sent Pete a shy look while he slung his arm around Pete’s hips. Pete just nodded, and with a delighted spark in his eyes, Patrick pulled him closer. And for a while, Pete could close his eyes and pretend that the music flooding the room was all that mattered.

 

Later that night, Pete was sitting in Patrick’s lap, arms slung around his shoulders, Patrick’s dick balls-deep in him already. Finally, _this_ , Pete could do well.

Pete hadn’t lied, he had appreciated whatever took him out of his head, be it pain or anonymous pleasure. It hadn’t been for satisfaction, it was just to make everything in his head stop for a little while. But sex with Patrick was so different, and Pete still waited for the moment where everything would fall into place and where everything would just make sense already.

He loved the way Patrick’s dick filled him up perfectly, loved to ride it, loved to feel it inside of him; was that wrong? An ex-hooker that liked to get fucked hard, was that pathetic?

“Oh, Pete, _fuck_ ,” he heard Patrick panting, and Pete was greedy for more words, for more approval, for the confirmation that he was good for _something_ at least.

Patrick let out a loud moan when Pete picked up speed, and whenever he slowed down for a kiss in between, there was nothing but pure want and hunger on Patrick’s lips. He never talked that much during sex, which annoyed Pete just a little – he wanted more, he wanted all of Patrick’s words, he needed the approval – but the greedy way Patrick licked into his mouth, the desperate throaty noises he made and his pretty blue eyes looking at Pete with such longing could do for now.

Pete was close, he could feel it, and then Patrick’s hand was on his cock, talented fingers that always stroked him just the right way. And they were touching _him_ , him and no one else, and a shudder went through Pete at that thought. At least for now, he had Patrick all to himself, at least for now, Patrick was focused on no one but him; and as long as Pete did well, he hoped to keep it that way. He just wanted Patrick so badly, and it made his chest ache with hope and fear and jealousy, with adoration and with all these other scary things Pete couldn’t name.

Patrick’s hand picked up speed, and Pete let out a groan. He pushed aside the complicated mess of emotions swirling inside his head, and just made room for simple pleasure.

“Fuck,” Pete stuttered, “Patrick, I’m close…!”

“Yes,” he heard Patrick moan, “yes – you can come whenever you want, Pete…”

With that, Pete saw no reason to hold back any longer. Patrick’s hand working his cock, Patrick’s other arm holding him close, Patrick’s eyes staring at him with sheer need, Patrick’s dick deep inside of him, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick –

Pete came hard, pressing closer to Patrick as he rode out his orgasm. He heard Patrick moan as he tightened around him, felt Patrick’s hand and lips on his body and for that few blissful moments, nothing but pure pleasure ran through Pete.

He felt exhausted afterwards, felt himself go limp in Patrick’s embrace. With a chuckle, Patrick eased him off his lap.

“You did so good,” Patrick whispered, and Pete wanted to cry, wanted to beg for more despite how much he hated begging, wanted to make a thousand promises that he’d always be good, better, everything that Patrick wanted from him. Patrick gently motioned him to lay down, and Pete realized that Patrick was still hard, still hadn’t come. So, Pete did as he was wanted to, instinctively spread his legs a little wider to grant Patrick better access.

Patrick was always attentive, Patrick wasn’t out to hurt him, and just a minute ago, his cock had felt so wonderful inside of Pete.

But when Patrick slid back into him, Pete couldn’t help but hiss a little, and he felt overwhelmed and sore. Usually, none of this would have been a problem. Pain was a thing Pete hadn’t felt in so long, whether he drowned it out with delusions, drugs, or both. He tried to hide it, tried to shove it away, why was his body working against him right now? He wanted to be good for Patrick, just a few more minutes of functionality, and –

Patrick leaned over him, let his hand run up Pete’s arm, traced over the tattoos up to Pete’s hand, laced their fingers together. It was sweet, it was a gesture of affection, one Pete desperately wanted to enjoy. But suddenly, all Pete knew was that he was back to earlier in his apartment, with the sweaty, slimy landlord on top of him, holding him down, whispering awful, awful things into his ear like so many times before and it hurt, it fucking _hurt_ so much like it did every time that pervert had shoved his pitiful dick inside of Pete. Everything hurt, Pete felt raw and oversensitive and everything just _hurt_ , and he wanted it to stop, stop, he wanted all these bastards _to stop touching me, to stop seeing me as a discardable piece of meat, stop it, I just want everything to stop -!_

 

“Pete!” Patrick’s voice sounded dull and distant, like it existed on a different layer of reality. “Pete, please – what’s going on?”

It was only then Pete realized Patrick had pulled out, had withdrawn his hand, and he looked as lost and afraid as Pete felt. He looked blurry, too, and Pete realized there were tears streaming down his face, obscuring his view. Hot, wet tears and cold sweat; Pete noticed he was trembling as he tried to sit up.

“Pete,” Patrick’s voice still sounded weak, but when Pete reached for him with shaking hands, Patrick was real, he was _here, with me, he’s really here_. “Pete, you panicked and – please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know I was doing something wrong, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know! Please, tell me what’s wrong, I was terrified! Pete, I’m sorry –”

Patrick was babbling, that much Pete could tell, but he didn’t have the strength to give an answer. All that came out Pete’s mouth were more ugly sobs, that’s all he had to offer – pain and misery and being so fucking broken. He felt Patrick pulling him closer, carefully, a shy gesture, and Pete couldn’t help but give in.

Leaning against Patrick’s chest, with Patrick’s arms around him as he muttered soothing words (none of which really reached him), Pete just let go, and allowed himself to cry a little more. It was too late to maintain any illusions anyway. And it felt good, being held, scary and unfamiliar but so good.

 

“Did I do something wrong?” Patrick asked after a while, and he sounded utterly miserable. It made Pete feel even guiltier.

“No,” Pete answered, voice hoarse and weak. “It wasn’t you, Patrick. It was just…” _Nothing_ , Pete wanted to say, _no one, it doesn’t matter, and I’m fine_. “I met my landlord back at my place,” Pete choked out instead, “that fucking bastard, I owed him rent and of course he showed up but – he didn’t want money, Patrick. He wanted _me_ instead. Thought he could fuck me, thought that some stupid cash could excuse everything he does to me and – fuck, what a _goddamn pathetic piece of shit!”_ Pete couldn’t help but yell the last part. It felt strangely cathartic to not make up excuses for this kind of behavior anymore.

“He wanted to hurt me,” Pete added in a hiss, unable to stop himself and to stop the words that had built up inside of him for so long. “He really, really wanted to hurt me, Patrick, and I was just so fucking afraid!”

Pete broke off, and shook his head. That was a mighty bit of truth he had just admitted out loud, a glimpse into Pandora’s box, and it was terrifying.

There wasn’t any answer from Patrick, who just continued to card his hand through Pete’s hair as he searched for an answer that he’d never find – what was there to say?

“Did he?” Patrick whispered. “Hurt you, I mean.”

“Not today,” Pete answered, and he wanted to stop, he didn’t want to burden Patrick with any more of his problems, he didn’t, but the words just kept coming. “He did before,” Pete blurted out, “and he never used a condom, Patrick – he told me _you fucked enough people without those, what does one more matter?_ And I couldn’t do anything… I couldn’t do _anything_ , just like all those other times, I was just so fucking helpless and that bastard got off on that. And he got off _inside_ of me,” Pete felt the tears coming back, “it’s fucking disgusting, _I_ am fucking disgusting, and I’m probably sick – that shithead was right, he wasn’t the only one who held me down and shoved his dick in my mouth or my ass without protection. What are the odds I didn’t catch anything off of any of them? There were so many, Patrick, and I wasn’t always this smart, I didn’t always use condoms with everyone for everything. Some Johns paid good money if I swallowed, even more when I let them bareback me, I was fucking greedy and _stupid_ and it would only be deserved if I’m positive.”

Patrick pulled him closer, and Pete could feel him tremble a little, could feel the same anger and helplessness radiating from Patrick that he felt himself.

“We’re getting you tested,” Patrick said in a shaky voice, “and it may be too late to change the past, but there’s a future ahead of you, Pete, there’s treatment and medication, you’re not going to die anytime soon even if you are positive. I’ll pay for it, it doesn’t matter, I’ll sell a million songs and produce whatever corporate garbage makes me the most money to pay for it if I have to.”

“Let’s hope you don’t,” Pete mumbled, and wiped over his eyes, carefully, despite the fact that there was no more make up left that could be ruined.

Thoughtful silence settled between them, before Patrick spoke up again. “I’ve been meaning to ask… That other hooker I hired, do you know what happened to him?”

“One of the junkies, right?” Pete shook his head. “I don’t even know which one of them you took home.”

“Tall, brown hair, brown eyes, pretty face… He said his name was William.”

“That probably describes half a dozen of them, and I bet my ass it wasn’t his real name,” Pete said with a scoff. “I’ve never talked much to them. I only knew because Brendon saw you, and he told me. The ones who shoot heroin and use all that other hardcore shit, those are the groups with the highest fluctuation. There’s so many of them, and they’re in an out of prison, they get in trouble with their dealers, the drugs destroy them and they can’t work anymore… And junkies don’t have friends, addiction doesn’t leave room for _that_. So I doubt anyone else has a clue either.”

He heard Patrick swallow, felt the bad conscience weighting him done.

“He was so young,” Patrick said quietly, “he couldn’t have been older than Brendon. And he looked _awful_ , Pete. I felt so ashamed – I still do.”

“You can’t save everyone, Patrick.” Pete couldn’t help but clench his hands into fists. “Brendon’s pimp, he’s still out there, he’s probably screwing over someone like William right now. My landlord, he’ll go fuck someone else, he’ll profit off people’s poverty and desperation until the day he dies. That John who bit me like some rabid dog, what do you think he’s doing when he’s away from the wife and kids for a business trip? He’ll find another hooker, he’ll hurt someone else. There’s so many awful people out there, and so little we can do.”

“I know,” Patrick whispered miserably, then shook his head. “I know, but what little I can do, I will.”

“I know you will,” Pete said with a small smile. “And my landlord today – I paid him with cash, and he fucked off. Bet he thought he could just try again next month, but I won’t be there anymore.”

“No,” Patrick said gently, “no, you won’t, and you never will be. He can’t get you anymore, Pete, you’re safe. No one will ever hurt you again, I promise!”

With a small sigh, Pete sat up. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he mumbled, “the world is still a shitty place and you’re too good for me, Patrick. You’re going to leave me,” Pete could barely bite back yet another sob, “you’re going to _leave_ just like all of them, you’ll get _bored_ of me when I can’t give you what you want, you’ll _hate_ me once you find out I’m not good enough! I – fuck, I have so little to give already, Patrick, and if I can’t offer you even that, why would you fucking want to bother having me around?”

“I’m not going to leave,” Patrick said firmly as he took Pete’s hand back into his own. “Funny that you say that – and here _I_ was the one who was always afraid of seeing you leave again and again.”

“I left before you could leave me.” The words surprised Pete, too. But they were true.

“I’m not going to leave,” Patrick repeated with such seriousness, it had to be true. It had to be. “I’m here for you, Pete, always.”

Pete nodded, and Patrick added with a sigh: “Look, Pete, I just don’t know what to do when you panic. I’m sorry, and I really want to help, but… how? It won’t be the last time, right? I don’t want to feel this helpless.”

“No, it won’t be the last time,” Pete mumbled with embarrassment. “I can… teach you a little bit tomorrow, how about that? And for everything else, I’ll get help.”

“ _Real_ help,” Patrick scoffed, “not just pills you down as you like.”

A _fuck you_ was on the tip of Pete’s tongue, but he swallowed it when he saw the anger in Patrick’s eyes, and when he realized that instead of an orgasm, he had given Patrick nothing but disappointment today.

“Do you want me to get you off?” Pete mumbled when he sat back on his heels, “I’m sorry that I ruined it. But I can still blow you, or give you a handjob?”

“No thanks,” Patrick said with a sigh, and any objections from Pete were stopped by Patrick holding up his hand. “First off, you don’t owe me anything, Pete, and as much as I enjoy sex with you, I don’t want it to be an obligation. And you can express your feelings in other way, you know? We don’t need to have sex to be intimate or to comfort each other or whatever. And second, you crying and panicking… After that I’m just not in the mood, okay? It’s not you or your looks or whatever, so don’t even start with that, I was just overwhelmed and I don’t want to have sex, okay? That’s a thing people are allowed to say: _No, I don’t want to_. We’re _both_ allowed to say that.”

Pete hung his head in shame, another apology already on his lips (fuck, when had the word sorry slipped into his regular vocabulary this much?), but Patrick just caught the desperate words in a kiss before they could leave Pete’s lips.

The way Patrick kissed him; it wasn’t an _I love you_ yet, but it was the promise of these three words, heavy with all the implications behind them. Pete kissed him back, hoped that he could lay the same sense of meaning behind his kiss; hoped that one day, they could say the words, too.

 

Afterwards, Pete stumbled to the bathroom, threw away the condom that Patrick got off his dick when he had been too busy panicking, and cleaned himself a little. What a joke it was, really. He remembered that before all of this prostitution shit, he had loved to swallow, love to fuck someone raw, loved to play dirty. But now, fear and potential illness held him back.

Pete sighed. Maybe he could take another bath tomorrow? He was growing rather fond of that option. Maybe, Patrick could be convinced to join him? That sounded like fun. Pete picked up the clothes he hadn’t bothered to put away earlier, and a piece of paper fell out his jeans.

Part of Pete wanted to throw it away. Part of Pete wanted to destroy it and forget about it forever. Instead, Pete took it with him to the bedroom, and placed it into the hands of a surprised Patrick.

“Andy said he can get me a job,” Pete explained as Patrick unfolded the paper. “He’s the owner of a record store – as if I could get any more of a cliché, right? But I’m taking this chance. I won’t back out.” He balled his hands into fists; he had to say it, he had to. “Andy gave me an address. It’s an NA meeting nearby, and I’m going.”

“A what?” Patrick asked with a cluelessness that was almost adorable. Pete felt almost bad for shattering the nice, clean, and simple world Patrick must’ve lived in before they met.

“NA. Narcotics Anonymous? Like AA, but… Not for alcohol. Y’know.” Pete made a helpless gesture as he stumbled over the words. Why was the truth so much harder to say than the million lies he had told before?

“Oh,” Patrick mumbled as he kept staring at the neatly written address. He shook his head, but then, there was a smile lighting up his face as he looked over to Pete. “I’m so proud of you,” Patrick said softly, and somehow, it sounded better than every praise in bed. Pete could get used to that warm feeling in his stomach that it gave him. “This is such a huge step, and – I’m really, really proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Pete whispered. “I’m afraid, Patrick, I really am. But you’ll be there for me, right?”

“Yes,” Patrick said with no hesitation. “I told you, Pete, I want you, all of you – good and bad parts included, and we’ll do this together.”

Would it really be that easy? Pete didn’t know. The future seemed so frightening. But with Patrick and Brendon at his side, maybe it was worth trying.

Patrick yawned a little as he carefully placed the paper on his nightstand, and Pete was reminded that Patrick actually had a job and responsibilities already.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Pete suggested with a chuckle, and held his arms open. “We can have more deep conversations tomorrow.”

“Hey, Pete. Are you alright?” Patrick whispered as he lay down next to Pete, and let himself get dragged into a tight hug.

“No,” Pete mumbled in response, “but for now, I’m as okay as I can be.” That wasn’t really much, Pete had to admit, but it was better than nothing. It was better than being dead. “Just let me cuddle you a little, and you should go to sleep.”

There was no answer from Patrick, because sometimes, that’s just how it was. Instead, Patrick leaned into the hug, let out a content sigh, and Pete watched him fall asleep.

 

Sadly, sleep did not bless Pete. Although not surprising, it was annoying. Pete felt Patrick’s chest rise and fall, heard rhythmic breathing, and felt just a little jealous. He knew he still had some sleeping pills somewhere, a meager leftover, and just as Pete contemplated downing a few of them (just for sleep, right? How bad could that be?), the door of the bedroom opened.

Brendon stood in the doorframe, shaking and in tears, and Pete wondered if that was going to become a common mindset for all of them.

“Pete?” The boy whispered, “Pete, I’m sorry, I’m just…” Pete sat up, and a moment later, Brendon clung to him.

“I can’t sleep,” he brought out between two small sobs, “It’s so dark and scary and I’m all alone – I’m all alone, Pete, it’s just like you said. No safe place to go.”

“Forget that,” Pete said through gritted teeth as he tried to calm the kid down. “’s not true, okay? You… We have a place to go, okay? Right here.”

“He didn’t come back for me,” Brendon mumbled, head resting against Pete’s chest. “He didn’t come back for me, Pete. I meant that little to him.”

“You should be fucking glad your little lover didn’t come for you, dumbass.” Pete tried to keep his voice down despite the anger. “He was a piece of shit. You should be glad the guy didn’t go to the police, we can be thankful we aren’t in more trouble. What do you think would’ve happened if the cops showed up here?”

The words were easier spoken then to be believed. Brendon shook his head, and Pete knew that it would take a long time and more than just his helpless explanations to make the kid see just how wrong everything had been.

“I heard you argue,” Brendon mumbled, “are you okay? He isn’t… Patrick doesn’t hurt you, right? You’re not sleeping with him just so that we can stay here, right?”

“No,” Pete said sternly. “I’m never doing any of that again.”

“What are we doing then?” Brendon asked, and Pete wondered when the world would stop asking him all these goddamn questions.

“You’re going to school, idiot. And when you’re done with school, I don’t know, you can go to college or wherever else you wanna go, you’re free to do as you please, Brendon. You can have your own place and your own family and a goddamn happy life with three kids or puppies or whatever the fuck you want. There is comfort and safety in this world, trust me.”

Brendon nodded weakly. One advantage of his youth was that at least, he was open to optimism.

“I’ll get a job,” Pete continued, “I can save up money. We can have… Maybe not a normal life, but a fucking _life_. No one can take that from us.”

“I want that,” Brendon whispered. “I want a life, Pete.”

“You’ll get it,” Pete mumbled, “the best life you could have, okay?”

Brendon laughed a little, and it was clear that he was only partially believing these words. But dammit, Pete would prove them right. He was done with lies and empty promises.

From the corner of his eyes, Pete noticed Patrick stirring. “The hell?” He heard Patrick curse as he sat up a little. “What – are you two alright?”

“It’s okay,” Brendon answered. “I’m sorry. I just… Don’t want to be alone.”

“Great,” Patrick grunted, “then sleep here, but for fuck’s sake, be _quiet_.”

“Okay, _daddy_ ,” Pete said in a mocking voice, which earned him a light punch to the side and a _fuck off_ from Patrick before he turned around again. Evidently, Patrick wasn’t very patient without an adequate dose of sleep.

The kid stayed quiet just as told, but he climbed into the bed next to Pete, and despite the limited space, Pete didn’t have the heart to kick him out again.

“You’re not alone, Brendon,” Pete whispered as quietly as possible. “I told you before, I’m here for you, okay? And I meant it.”

“Thank you,” Brendon whispered back, and wiped away the last of his tears. Soon enough, the boy fell asleep, and again Pete couldn’t help but be jealous that he was surrounded by people for whom sleep just came so easy.

 

Silence of the night had always seemed to oppressive, something that Pete had desperately wanted to escape – with loud music and parties, with pharmacy and shady company and whatever, anything that covered up the silence and tuned over the noise in his head.

But right here, right now, with the sound of two loved ones sleeping next to him, with a glimmer of hope that even the shadows of the night couldn’t suffocate, Pete felt at peace, for the first time since forever.

 

Maybe, everything would be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm typing these words, but next chapter will be the final chapter! My hands are shaking a little, haha. What do you think will happen? I'd love to know, so feel free to leave a little comment! ;)
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr and if you like the story, please reblog the art, it would mean a lot!


	15. I Just Want To See The Boy Happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so... This is it, everyone!   
> Thanks @Snitches for being an awesome beta reader!
> 
> I will leave the sentimentalities for the end note. So, without much further ado, I present to you the last chapter of this fanfiction! As always, the accompanying art is done by me!   
> Enjoy!~

 

 

 

 

Pete was lazing around on the couch, bored out of his mind.

Three years into their relationship, but waiting for Patrick never became any easier.

Pete felt tired, he hadn’t slept all day, hadn’t slept all night yesterday either. Insomnia still haunted him, a dear old friend that wouldn’t let go of him.

It was those times he missed cigarettes, something he had quit when he quit everything else. He had been battling addiction anyway, and Patrick had asthma, and Brendon needed a good role model – so, Pete had quit smoking, feeling slightly irritated and ridiculous. Going from being a hooker on the street with no compassion or care to sitting in a nice apartment and having Patrick explain how he couldn’t stand smoke and how Pete needed to set a good example for the boy formerly prostituting himself right next to Pete had been a little hard to accept right away.

The ache was still there, for nicotine and for everything else, but by now, Pete knew better than to give in. He knew it from years of bitter experience, and he knew it from countless meetings with likeminded people, he knew it from constant affirmation and his sponsor at NA.

“Will it ever stop?” Pete had asked in agony, and received a knowing smile and a “no” for an answer.

 

What fucking bullshit.

 

Now, Pete had a second calendar. Days since he was sober, the regular NA meetings, coins he could count for each successful step. It was a constant battle, one he couldn’t afford to lose again.

Now, Pete had pills that came from a friendly but strict therapist with a prolific degree displayed proudly on the wall of her office. They were counted and numbered, neatly put away in a medicine cabinet, each one of them traded for words instead of just cash. And whenever those were not enough, his therapist had offered alternatives that weren’t heavy medications. It was much harder to walk a path not clouded by benzodrines and other neat pharmaceutical inventions, it was so much more difficult to just _do_ things instead of just popping another pill. Sometimes, the itch to just quit and give up was overwhelming.

But Pete kept walking.

With a sigh, Pete turned to the side, and reached out to pet the dog sleeping next to the couch on the floor. He got a sleepy noise in response; it was late, and even the dogs just wanted to sleep. Pete had fed them and walked them in time – since Patrick wasn’t here to do so – and now, he relished in running his fingers through soft fur, knowing there was someone alive here with him, someone who wasn’t troubled with all these dark thoughts.

Pete couldn’t stand being alone.

For the past few weeks, Patrick had come home later and later, usually with a frown and a tirade about how many things hadn’t gone to plan or how he had to tweak this one song for three hours until it sounded just right. Pete hoped that damn album would at least get him another award, just so that it was worth the trouble.

It wasn’t like Pete wasn’t busy either – ever since Andy came back from surgery with a cast around his wrist, resentment and determination etched into his face, there were rumors about expanding the record store, about opening a second one, or maybe even opening a venue. Andy had the money, and still all his good intentions about supporting other artists. If that were to happen, Pete knew he’d get a good position, he knew that after three years, Andy would trust him with management. And Pete wanted something for himself, a little bit of success, even if it paled next to everything Patrick had achieved.

 

Finally, the door opened, and a moment later, Patrick entered the living room. The dogs perked up a little, but Patrick had barely any attention for them. Pete raised his brows, that meant Patrick was _really_ pissed. He felt annoyance rising in him; tomorrow was their first day off together in a while, and he wasn’t in the mood to spend the evening with a pissed-off, angry boyfriend agonizing yet again about the same tired old bullshit he had complained about for the past few weeks.

Luckily, Pete had his own tactics to change that.

Pete got up from the couch, and greeted Patrick with a seemingly carefree smile. “Welcome home, honey,” he said with a grin, knowing it was a phrase that annoyed Patrick. Still, it got Pete his attention. Patrick’s lips were pressed into a tight frown, and he looked exhausted, and for a moment, it looked like he might snap. But Pete has learned very well where Patrick’s limits were, and how to push his buttons. He didn’t say _I missed you all day_ or _you’re finally home_ because he knew that would only make Patrick feel guiltier, and Pete had no intention of repeating that argument anytime soon.

Instead, Pete put his hands on Patrick’s hips, and pressed a little kiss to his forehead. Patrick relaxed under his touch, and let out a long-drawn sigh.

“Sorry I’m late again,” Patrick mumbled as he lay his arm around Pete’s hips. “We’re close, we’re _this close_ to get this stupid album done but I swear, no one is doing anything the way I want to, I’ve yelled at the sound engineer three times today and Jesus. It’s planned to be a huge hit and I fucking _know_ how to do hits, okay, if they can’t give me any creative freedom over this corporate shit, they should at least let me work in peace!”

“They’re assholes,” Pete muttered in agreement. He meant it, but he also didn’t want to continue the topic right now. Another kiss to Patrick’s forehead, on the tip of his nose, then a kiss on his lips, just to test the water. Luckily, Patrick just sighed again, leaned into the kiss, and pulled Pete into a tight embrace.

Pete kissed him again, dirtier this time, tongue exploring Patrick’s mouth, teeth giving a little bite to his pretty lips that thankfully forgot the frown completely. He let his hands wander under Patrick’s shirt, felt goosebumps and a little shiver. So far, this was going good.

Fuck work, Pete wanted was to have Patrick to himself, without any worries or concerns. Pete had been looking forward to this evening and _damn it_ , he was not going to waste it with anger and annoyance.

When his hands wandered downwards, slipped into Patrick’s pants to rest on the swell of his ass, Pete heard him moan a little. Yes, good, good; Pete grinned, he loved how responsive Patrick still was to all his little kisses and touches even after all this time. Yet another deep kiss, blunt nails digging into pale skin, and Patrick was grinding closer, half-hard already.

Three years, but Patrick was still laughably _easy_.

 

“Wanna take this to the bedroom?” Pete asked between two kisses, and Patrick hummed in approval. There was the couch right there, or Pete could just drop on his knees right now, but truth was, he usually preferred a bed – no, their _own_ fucking bed. He’d spent enough time kneeling on the floor, on the limited space of someone else’s backseat, in someone else’s bed. No more of that.  

They stumbled upstairs, and then Pete had him pressed into the mattress, panting and shirtless already. Sprawled out on the bed just for Pete, no more frowns and scowls and anger on Patrick’s face; just adoration and need and want, want, _want_ for him alone… Now that was a much better sight, and Pete felt his own annoyance melt away.

One more kiss to Patrick’s pretty lips, then Pete worked his way down, over the small patch of hair on his chest, over his soft stomach, over every little part that Pete loved to kiss. He loved to be a little rougher, too, but this was going so well, and Pete decided to keep that for later, when he could be absolutely sure that Patrick was open for bites and bruises and a clash of red on the white canvas of his skin showing the world where Pete’s hands (and _Pete’s_ hands alone) had been.

“Wanna blow you,” Pete said in a low voice, “you want that, too?” He knew the answer would be yes, he knew enough about Patrick and his body language to determine when he was comfortable with something. But ever since Pete had shifted from getting fucked for money to having sex for love and pleasure, he’d found himself asking all these questions he’d wanted the Johns who once bought him to ask. It just gave him a sense of security, even though he dressed these questions up in a playful attitude, and hearing Patrick utter a breathless “yes, I want that, Pete!” never failed to make Pete’s heart beat a little faster.

In no time, Pete had undone Patrick’s belt, and shoved his pants down. They joined the pile of clothes on the floor, together with Pete’s hoodie (which, technically, belonged to Patrick – Pete just liked to _borrow_ it). Pete knew he didn’t have to undress, but he did it nonetheless. Maybe not complete nakedness for now, but Pete had never hesitated to be shirtless, and years of sex work hadn’t exactly helped his lack of shyness or the slightly exhibitionistic streak he had always had. It made him feel strangely secure, and the hungry look from Patrick just made it all the better.

 

Pete kissed him dirtily while he stroked him into hardness, then, trailed back down, licked a stripe over Patrick’s cock.

Patrick sat up a little, sent Pete a worried look that Pete knew well enough by know.

“’m good,” Pete said with a grin, “I wanna feel you. Wanna taste you.”

Technically, condoms weren’t necessary. Pete remembered that day they got the results, remembered crying when he turned out to be negative. God knows Patrick and the kid deserved to be healthy, but Pete… It had been a miracle, a gift he didn’t feel worthy of. After all he had done, after everything that had happened, there should’ve been nothing but relief that he at least didn’t have HIV. Instead, all Pete had felt was more guilt.

Even after all this time, on bad days, Pete also felt panic. Every time someone had forced their dick into him without protection, without his consent, a myriad of terrifying experiences all washing over him and all that helped to keep it at bay then was that stupid piece of latex, that signifier of safety and control he just couldn’t let go of for good. His therapist had words for that, like _trauma_ and _rape survivor_ and _flashbacks_ , yet another long list of problems added to Pete’s already shaky mental health.

But today was going so good. Pete felt confident, strong enough to not let his past win. Condoms were for dirty hookers. Good, clean boyfriends didn’t need them.

Patrick tilted his head, but after a moment, he nodded. Pete knew that Patrick could see through most of his lies, he knew when Pete was being honest, which was both a relief and annoying.

Unwilling to let the topic linger any longer between them, Pete gave another grin, then licked another broad stripe over Patrick’s shaft. All he wanted was to give Patrick a nice blowjob, let him enjoy himself for a while; today would be relaxed and comfortable, just _them_.

It didn’t take long until he had Patrick writhing underneath him, bucking his hips with his hands twisted into the sheets. As much as Pete liked to be little rougher sometimes, some gestures he had just grown to hate over the years of being a hooker. And one of those was certainly having his hair pulled, especially during a blowjob – too many anonymous hands had ruined that for Pete forever. Luckily, Patrick had followed rules obediently even back when Pete had been his hooker, so Pete had never been worried about Patrick overstepping the boundaries he set as his boyfriend.

“I’m close,” he heard Patrick pant, “Pete, ah – you don’t have to… You don’t need to swallow…”

It was nice that Patrick kept looking out for him, but right now, Pete felt good, wanted nothing but to make Patrick come, swallow every last bit of him until Patrick was nothing but a shivering mess.

So, Pete kept going, eyes fixed on Patrick, who threw his head back, let out a delightful low groan that told Pete he was about to come. It didn’t take long until Pete had the bitter taste of cum on his tongue, only pulling away when Patrick’s hand on his shoulder motioned him off.

Pete sat up, wiping over his mouth while he watched Patrick whose eyes were still squeezed shut, relishing in the last bit of afterglow. Post-orgasm Patrick always made for a nice view, with the rose-colored blush on his pretty face, blue eyes still half-hidden when he smiled lazily at Pete, blissful and happy and just _Pete’s_.

Patrick held out his arm, and Pete curled up next to him. Patrick gave him a small kiss on the forehead, then ran his hand through Pete’s hair. Now _that_ Pete could always appreciate, _that_ was much better than rough pulling or any other violent gesture.

Right now, Pete’s hair was shorter, fringe traded for something that was easier to maintain and less calculated for someone else’s need for a scene twink, a look Pete had left behind in the past. It was also bleached, because if his job had any advantage, it was that he had almost ultimate freedom with his appearance. Patrick had called it _a little ridiculous and too extravagant_ , but the smile on his face and the way he still loved to run his hand through it had belied the harsh judgement.

 

“That was fucking good… Want me to reciprocate?” Patrick asked with a low chuckle.

Pete hesitated. He definitely wanted to spend more of their evening doing dirty things together in bed. But right now, Pete just felt relaxed, and Patrick’s hand carding through his hair felt so good.

It was hard to say no, it still was. It was hard to differentiate between his actual needs, and the more destructive part of him that still traded sex as a currency. Maybe not for money anymore, but as a plea for affection, as a bribe for love, out of fear that rejection might cost too much – even though Pete knew that Patrick wouldn’t want any of that.

“Or later, maybe?” Patrick said softly, and Pete felt both humiliated and relieved.

There was no denying that it was annoying how Patrick grew to know him so well. Patrick knew his weaknesses and the craziness going on in Pete’s head, was familiar with Pete’s irrational thought patterns, could judge those type of situations pretty well. Being so exposed and vulnerable in front of someone else was hard to accept.

On the other hand, Pete knew he could trust Patrick, knew he would never do something to hurt him – Patrick wouldn’t coerce him to do anything, wouldn’t scream or shout or do something worse. He may not always have treated the hooker right, oh, Patrick hadn’t been without his flaws; something that had taken Pete a while to realize, and an even longer time to come to terms with and grant Patrick that forgiveness he had asked for.

But handling _him_ , Pete? Yes, Pete trusted Patrick with that.

“Yes,” Pete said finally; good, _yes_ still felt so much better than _no_ despite the context, “yes, later. Spoil me a little more before that, Patrick…”

Pete heard Patrick sigh, grinned to himself because he knew Patrick didn’t mean it. But Patrick couldn’t always give in to Pete’s demands without a little show, too. Pete was guided onto his stomach. Patrick straddled his hips, and Pete felt two hands on his back, soft and inquiring. Fuck, and Pete wasn’t going to say no to this.

“A back massage?” He hummed while he felt Patrick’s finger trailing over his spine. “Mmm, even though you’re the hardworking boyfriend who just got home?”

“I also just got a blowjob,” Patrick replied, hands tracing over well-known ink, “so I’m plenty relaxed. Just shut up and enjoy.”

The words were belied by a gentle kiss to Pete’s neck, and Pete felt himself relaxing. It was soft fingers on naked skin, intimate, yet not sexual. Pete let out a content purr, and closed his eyes. Touching and accepting to be touched outside of sex, that was something he still struggled with sometimes. But Patrick’s hands worked him well, and feeling Patrick’s body on top of his anchored Pete back to reality. Yes, for now, it was what Pete needed, and as much as he hated being this vulnerable, the thankfulness that Patrick had seen that, was willing to give him this… Yeah, that outshined any shame.

 

It just felt so good to be touched, and to spend some time with Patrick that wasn’t rushed kisses before one of them had to go to work, wasn’t tired and exhausted cuddling before Patrick inevitably fell asleep, wasn’t arguing about who had to do the laundry and feed the dogs and clean the kitchen. He heard Patrick humming to himself; Patrick had a beautiful voice, and Pete hoped to get Patrick to sing to him a little tomorrow. Maybe even play some of those songs that Pete knew were just Patrick’s, songs and melodies that wouldn’t be sold to anyone. Some of them belonged to Pete, and _just_ to Pete – written for him, for some of his words that he had struggled to find again for so long. Patrick had told him what he wrote was great, had offered to sell it for a good price, but so far, Pete had always declined. What he wrote was too personal, and Pete was _done_ selling anything of himself.

They had moved into a house with way more space than Patrick’s old apartment, which Patrick had taken as an invitation to fill it with even more musical equipment. Pete just let him, and not too long ago, his very own bass, the first instrument he’d owned in too many years, had joined the pile. So much for his half-hearted resolution to never play again; but that thought had belonged to another world, another Pete, to a person he no longer was. Pete was clumsy and out of practice, and it frustrated him sometimes to be outshined by both Patrick and Brendon, but surprisingly enough, that didn’t diminish his enjoyment. One day, he was sure music and him could become friends again.

 

When Patrick was done and lay down next to him again, Pete felt content and comfortable. “So good,” he whispered, “you’re the very best, Patrick.” It was dressed up in playfulness, because that sometimes was just easier to hide behind. But they both knew that the words were truer than Pete’s grin made them seem to be.

Patrick just smiled back. “There’s going to be a party next week,” he said after a while, “some fancy promotion from the label. A big event, some of our new acts are playing… You wanna go?”

Pete shook his head.

It was crowded and full, many of the guests – especially the acts – younger than Pete, which never failed to sting a little. Being surrounded by so many successful people living out old Pete’s dream of fame and fortune wasn’t that easy. Especially when Pete himself had nothing to offer, when all Pete qualified for was maybe selling their music in Andy’s store.

Other things Pete used to enjoy so much also suddenly had lost all their appeal. Seeing people stare at him with hungry eyes, a lustful gaze, a touch to his arm that didn’t have any friendly intention, all the sort of attention Pete had craved once, had made money off – he fucking hated it now.

Sure, Pete couldn’t deny he was a little vain, and getting attention or going out wasn’t something he disliked in general.

But a huge party, in the gloomy darkness, with loud music and strange faces all around him, with those predatory grins and the unpredictability of people’s behaviors – no, oh no, Pete didn’t want any of this, not like that, not from those people.

 _When have I grown old and wary like that?_ Pete didn’t know.

What he did know though was that at these parties, drugs were always present. And Pete knew, could always tell exactly who was taking them. He knew the telltale sign of someone sniffing, wiping their nose, someone having a little too much fun, eyes and smile chemically altered; he knew what type of people would sell everything from cocaine to E to whatever new and upcoming party drug was in that day. Years ago, in a different lifetime, that would have brought a smile to his face, years ago, Pete would’ve had no trouble chatting these guys up and exchanging some cash for a good time.

Nowadays, all Pete could feel was fear, stress, and a little spark of disappointment over not being able to enjoy those things anymore.

“I don’t wanna go,” Pete said with a childish pout, “do we have to? I’d rather stay home with you.”

Not too long ago, Pete never would’ve believed those words would come from his lips. Yet here they were, and Pete meant every single one of them.

 _When did I become so homely and boring_? Pete didn’t know. Maybe, he had lost his party self when he had given up the drugs, maybe, he had lost it long before; maybe it had been fucked out of him in a dark alleyway and backseats of a stranger’s car.

Thankfully, Patrick didn’t seem to mind. Pete knew very well how much Patrick hated parties, too. Which he had grown very grateful of.

“We don’t have to go,” Patrick said with a chuckle, “just wanted to ask. But I’d rather stay home with you, too.”

It was so laughably cheesy, so not like his old self but Pete couldn’t care less. No matter any of that, these words made him happier than any stupid loud party, and flash of greedy desire in a stranger’s eye, any artificial happiness he could buy.

How life had changed – _or maybe, it’s just me who has changed_.

 

“I’ll be done with the album next week, _hopefully_ ,” Patrick continued, “we’ll have some time to ourselves. Maybe we can ask Brendon if he wants to come home for the weekend.”

Pete nodded eagerly. Truth was, he missed the boy – well, it wasn’t fair to call him that, given that Brendon was 21 and in college, but Pete suspected he wouldn’t stop anytime soon no matter how much Brendon protested.

Yeah, he missed the kid, missed having someone else home. It had taken a while until Brendon had adjusted to a normal life, but he was young and hopeful, without a record of previous mental illness or addiction, and Patrick’s money had bought him the best care his mind and body could get. Now, three years later, Pete found that Brendon got out of his old life not unscathed, but with much less damage than Pete.

The boy was still determined to make up for every good thing they had given him; maybe not in the form of sex anymore, but by trying his best in everything else. He had done a pretty good job finishing high school, and right now, was doing a pretty good job at college. He wanted to “help all those kids that were like me once” – lofty ambitions, and Pete was sure Brendon would inevitably lose some of his optimism when he got back out into the world. But for now, he was doing fine.

“He’s talking more and more about that Sarah girl,” Pete said with a grin, “I think the kid got himself a girlfriend.”

“Good for him. Brendon should invite her sometime.” Patrick tried to be casual about it, and Pete couldn’t help but laugh. He knew that Patrick was _dying_ to meet the girl, and he would be the perfect embarrassing dad right down to the awkward questions and stern lectures.

Pete knew Patrick had more ambitions that that. He had plans to be the perfect dad for more than just Brendon. Sure, he loved the boy, but Brendon had barely been a kid to begin with (and had only been a handful of years younger than Patrick) and now that had moved out, he had left a hole behind. And Patrick was getting right to that perfect age where nice, sensible men like him started to want to settle down. A house and dogs, that part he got, but he’d want everything else, too – marriage and kids, a family, a ring around Pete’s finger matching his own.

They hadn’t discussed this much, it had only been three years and not the best start at that. Pete knew Patrick was being patient with him, that there was still time ahead to make his decision. It scared Pete nonetheless – how could he promise Patrick to be together until death did them apart when sometimes, Pete wasn’t sure if his old urges wouldn’t overwhelm him, wouldn’t make him let death part them sooner than intended? In good times and in bad times – what if Pete had nothing but bad times in store? A child, or children, plural – how could he, Pete, ever be a good dad to a little kid?

One day, Pete would have to answer those questions. He knew Patrick had dreams buried somewhere, songs he wouldn’t sell to other acts, instruments he never got to play in front of a crowd. He was content working behind the scenes, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a spark of regret, a little bit of sadness over lost opportunities.

But Pete was sure that a family wasn’t a dream that Patrick was willing to abandon.

Oh, Pete wanted it too, but… It was so difficult.

With a little sigh, Pete thought back to his own parents. He definitely hadn’t always been a good son to them. Calling them after everything that had happened, after all this time of radio silence had been thoroughly awkward, meeting them in person – a rollercoaster of emotions. Pete could barely recall anything aside from tears and hugs, stuttered words that didn’t make any sense, and overwhelming anxiety. That had gradually eased over time, and what Patrick had once said to him had proven right – his parents hadn’t stopped loving him. But there was a shadow of sadness sometimes, a silent sigh and the knowing look of his mother that said more than a thousand words, hugs that weren’t as happy and carefree as in his boyhood anymore. His parents had never asked about the time Pete had vanished, although Pete was sure that they knew their son well enough to guess for themselves. Maybe one day, he’d have the strength to fully open up to them…  

 

Patrick’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Hey, Pete. Have you eaten yet?”

Pete shook his head. No use lying about that anyway. “I haven’t,” he answered, “I wanted to wait for you.”

“You didn’t need to,” Patrick said with a sigh, but Pete just shrugged. He didn’t like to eat alone, and even though years had passed since his job as a hooker had screwed up any resemblance of a normal lifestyle, he still had trouble sometimes to stick to a regular daily routine.

“Have you taken your meds?” Patrick asked, with just the slightest strain in his voice.

Pete shook his head again. “Not taking them on an empty stomach.”

“Then let’s eat.” Despite the small smile on Patrick’s face, Pete knew this wasn’t up for debate. So, he nodded, and got up.

 

 

 

When Patrick walked into the kitchen, the table was already set. Pete leaned against the counter, eyeing the timer on the microwave. He was no longer shirtless, wearing the hoodie again that Patrick had practically given up on by now. He’d lost quite a few of those to Pete over time, together with some shirts, but never once had Patrick had the heart to object – if such a little thing made Pete happy, Patrick was willing to sacrifice all his clothes to him in a heartbeat.

“Two more minutes,” Pete announced with a grin, and made grabby hands at him. Patrick just laughed, but took the outstretched hand, let himself get pulled closer and into a tight embrace.

“’s just leftovers. Sorry for being such a bad housewife,” Pete said in the same playful tone he had always used to semi-hide a truth he didn’t want to outright admit. “I’ll feed you right tomorrow – let me take you out for dinner? We have time, we can finally check out that new Japanese place I’ve told you about.”

Patrick nodded. He couldn’t deny the shadow of guilt gnawing at him. After all, he hadn’t spent much time at home in the past few weeks, and he knew Pete had missed him.

“Great!” Pete pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek, then let go of him. “We’re going out – can’t wait to show off my beautiful and talented boyfriend to the world again.”

“You’re being silly,” Patrick mumbled, even though the compliment made him blush. From anyone else, it would have sounded condescending, but he knew Pete meant it. Over the years, Pete had learned to push his buttons, had figured out what to say to cheer him up, and when to say it. Of course, that also meant Pete knew pretty well what to say to hurt him, knew how bring tears to his eyes during an argument, knew how to get him frustrated enough that Patrick wanted to punch him. It wasn’t easy to be so close to someone, to have his weaknesses out in the open and so easily readable, but it had its advantages from time to time – like right now.

Pete grinned again, like he always did when he was proud to have done good. Then, the beeping microwave announced that their food was ready.

Having forgotten about his own workplace troubles for now, Patrick mostly let Pete talk about weird customers and their shitty taste in music, about Andy’s possible plans of expanding his hopes to get a higher position, about the soccer game he had watched. It was mundane, but to Patrick, it meant a lot. Just a normal conversation with Pete over supper – that hadn’t always been easy at the start of their relationship, still wasn’t a given because some days were just bad no matter how hard Pete fought against it.

 

Once they were done eating, Patrick put the plates away, and Pete reached for his meds. Everything was counted and arranged precisely; Pete was usually capable of doing so himself, but Patrick always had a look over it, couldn’t help but make sure Pete was doing it right, couldn’t help but glance at Pete from the corner of his eye as he washed down everything with a glass of water. The paranoia hadn’t gone away completely, and Patrick couldn’t deny that deep down, there still was a little bit of fear that Pete might fall back into old habits.

So far though, everything had gone good. Not perfect, of course, recovery was a bumpy route; but today, Pete just put everything away neatly, no shaky hands, no frown, no angry tears in his eyes.

Instead, Pete pulled him closer again. This time though, the kisses were dirty, this time, Pete’s hands wandered under his shirt again with the clear intention of getting it off.

“Bedroom?” Patrick asked, because he knew that was what Pete usually preferred.

“We could fuck on the kitchen table again,” Pete said with a smug grin, “you know it has the perfect height to bend me over…”

“Ew, Pete. We just _ate_ there.”

“Big words coming from the man who did that just a few weeks ago, and enjoyed it immensely. _Again_ ,” Pete remarked, still smiling smugly. Patrick felt his face burning, because Pete was right. It may have been Pete’s bad idea – he had a never-ending supply of those, some of which Patrick didn’t want to know where they came from – but Patrick had to admit, as much as he was embarrassed, he was pretty bad at saying no. Pete knew very well what to do to please him.

“Bedroom,” Patrick repeated nonetheless. He wanted to draw this out, be as comfortable as possible. Pete laughed, but let himself get dragged upstairs again.

 

Pete stretched out on the bed – _their_ bed –  naked, all tan skin and bright smile… A sight Patrick never got tired of. He let his hands wander over Pete’s body, traced over the ink – all touched up again, with new additions, even a splash of color on one of his arms – felt the muscles working underneath. Pete wasn’t as sickly skinny as he used to be, and he had taken up going to the gym. He wasn’t as rigid about it as his friend Andy, but Patrick was grateful that Andy had pushed Pete a little, had encouraged him and always provided company and help. Not just because Patrick enjoyed the result of that, no. More importantly, it gave Pete focus, made him feel better, had given him some self-esteem and Pete had admitted that it helped to fight off the destructive urges sometimes.

“Anything you want?” Patrick asked, fingers splayed out over Pete’s chest while he waited for an answer. He loved to feel the he warmth of Pete’s body, and Pete’s heartbeat right under his fingertips.

“Eat me out?” Pete prompted, and bat his lashes. He wasn’t doing the hooker games anymore, but that didn’t mean that the real Pete didn’t have his own tricks to get what he wanted.

“You really are set on getting spoiled today,” Patrick mumbled as he sat up.

“I’m all clean and showered,” Pete just said with a dirty grin while he sat up as well, “no need to worry.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, but still dragged him into a deep kiss, giving little bites to Pete’s lower lip until Pete inhaled sharply, followed by a soft moan. “Fine,” Patrick whispered between two kisses, delighted at the spark of joy in Pete’s eyes.

 

Pete turned around, and got on all fours. Patrick let his hands trail over his spine, admired the pretty sight Pete made. He knew it wasn’t always easy for Pete to do this, he knew Pete didn’t much like facing away from him, knew about all kinds of terrible stories confessed to him with anger, tears, hurt. But right now, Pete just hummed in approval, arched his back a little, and turned his head to send Patrick an unmistakable glance of impatience and desire.

Truth was, Patrick loved to do this, loved to hear Pete moan for him as he licked him open, loved to play dirty. And truth was also that deep down, the knowledge that he, _Patrick_ , gave this to Pete, did what none of the hooker’s Johns had been allowed to, that Pete trusted him and _him_ alone with this – fuck, that only made it better.

Patrick’s tongue wandered over the small of Pete’s back, over his tail bone, down to his cleft. He heard Pete let out a low moan, a noise that went straight to Patrick’s cock, and he wondered why pleasing Pete of all people brought him so much joy – but what use was to wonder why people fell in love with each other, anyway?

All that mattered now was that Pete moaned again as Patrick’s tongue trailed over puckered skin, all that mattered was that Patrick knew he’d never get enough of him. The hooker may have given him more pretty words and louder pleasant sounds, an exaggerated play all for his amusement, but what the real Pete could give him couldn’t be bought with money.

Patrick slowly slid in a first, then a second spit-slick finger, accompanied by a hungry groan from the back of Pete’s throat. He was tight around his fingers, but soon pushing back against them. Feeling Pete opening up around him, loose and wet from spit, his dick hard and hot in Patrick’s hand, fuck, that was just too goddamn good.

“Wanna come now, like this?” Patrick asked, despite his own hard cock twitching in protest.

 

Pete sat up a little, then shook his head. “I want you to fuck me,” he demanded in a low voice; Patrick withdrew his fingers, and Pete reached for the nightstand to grab the lube – always plentiful in stock just like the condoms, Pete made sure of that. An old habit he couldn’t let go of, Patrick assumed, just like it was still an unspoken rule that Pete handled the condoms. He wasn’t so strict with those anymore, not always to his advantage; as much as Patrick liked them gone, as much as he was relieved that condoms weren’t a necessary barrier anymore, it was undeniable that Pete didn’t always handle raw, unprotected sex so well.

“You sure about this?” Patrick couldn’t help but asked when he saw only the bottle of lube in Pete’s hand. He wanted, oh he wanted to fuck Pete like this, but not if that meant making him uncomfortable, or worse, freak out, cry, sit under the scalding hot water in the shower for hours. All of this had happened before.

“Told you, I’m clean. I’m good to go,” Pete said while rolling his eyes. “And I told you, I wanna feel you, Patrick. It’s been a while, I want something special.”

Patrick eyed him for a moment, but Pete looked confident, and today had gone so well. He decided to trust Pete’s decision, hoped that was the right thing to do.

With that, Patrick slicked up his fingers, and Pete leaned back into the pillows, with hungry eyes and his lower lip between his teeth, beautiful and tempting as always. Patrick slid two fingers back into him, making Pete moan again. He took the third finger with little trouble, and dragged Patrick down for a kiss.

“Don’t,” Patrick tried to protest weakly as he thought back to where his mouth had just been.

The objection only earned him an annoyed scoff, and then Pete pressed their lips together anyway. Patrick was never sure whether Pete was just naturally lacking any sense of disgust, or if his years of being a hooker made him lose that.

“Stop that,” Patrick mumbled between two kisses, “stop – ugh, Pete, _gross_!”

“Shut up,” Pete growled back, “don’t be so fucking annoying about it. _You_ were the one who just ate my ass.”

Patrick muttered another weak objection under his breath, which went unheard as well. It was no use arguing, so he just sat up, and focused on what his fingers were doing between Pete’s legs. He let his other hand trail over Pete’s chest, down to his cock, hard and leaking a little already. It was rewarded with another hungry groan, and Pete arched his back in search for more friction, more body contact, more of _him._

“Fuck me,” Pete hissed, “c’mon, Patrick, I’m ready!”

Patrick reached for the lube, but Pete grabbed it first. He spread some over his fingers, then, swiftly slicked up Patrick’s cock. Patrick couldn’t help but moan a little, because fuck, he knew how well Pete’s fingers could work his dick… But that was for another time.

 

For now, Pete fell back into the mattress, spread his legs a little wider; Patrick ran a hand over his thighs, admiring the view of Pete, wet and stretched for his cock, for just a few more seconds. Then, Patrick lined up with his entrance, and slowly slid himself in. He kept his eyes fixed on Pete, watching for any signs of discomfort, but all he saw was impatient eagerness.

Once he was all the way in, Pete wrapped his legs around Patrick’s waist, shifted his position a little. Heavy breathing and the smell of sweat and sex filled the room, while Patrick teasingly ran his fingers over Pete’s cock, waiting for him to adjust, waiting to find out if Pete was still okay with this. If not, Patrick was ready to stop.

So far though, no sign that Pete wanted any of that.

Pete took a deep breath, then smirked. “Hey, Patrick, are you just gonna stare at me, or are you gonna fuck me, too?”

“You just look so pretty,” Patrick said in his defense, smiling a little when Pete’s grin widened. He had come to learn a little about what Pete liked as well. “So pretty,” Patrick repeated as he bowed down, planted a kiss to Pete’s lips (because at this point, it made no difference anymore anyway), “always so perfect for me, Pete.”

Those were well-known words, but Pete needed them sometimes. Not for vanity (though Pete certainly was vain, too) but because reassurance helped to keep Pete grounded, made him feel safe, made it clear that this wasn’t just some anonymous fucking with a replaceable whore and his client.

“I – ah, I do my best, Patrick,” Pete whispered back when Patrick started to move slowly. “Fuck, and your cock always feels so fucking good inside of me…”

Pete never was as vocal as he had been back when hired as a hooker, but he still liked to talk. Patrick wasn’t quite sure if Pete was just plain noisy, or if years of sex work had brought out that side in him.

It didn’t matter. If that was what Pete needed, Patrick wasn’t going to question it. Instead, Patrick heard himself mumble more praise, and he planted more kisses to Pete’s face, let his hands wander over every inch of skin they could find. It got the most wonderful little moans out of Pete, fuck, so much better than any sound the hooker had ever made because this was real, this was _Pete_ , this was everything Patrick longed for.

Pete was hot and tight around his cock, moved his hips in a pace matching Patrick’s thrusts, he just felt so fucking good as always. Hands clutched into pale skin, nails digging into soft flesh, probably enough to leave a trail of red; Pete liked to do that, loved to leave traces on Patrick’s body in any form. Patrick enjoyed the delicious sense of pain when blunt nails dragged over his skin, loved it when Pete’s mouth lingered long enough on his neck to imprint the evidence of his kiss for the upcoming days, no matter how juvenile a hickey might be. And while he didn’t like to be too rough with Pete, he knew that unlike the hooker, Pete appreciated Patrick doing the same. Patrick couldn’t deny he loved to take what Pete’s clients hadn’t been allowed to have, loved to reclaim something that once had been ugly and depressing and turn it into something that made Pete squirm under his hands with pleasure, made Pete grin and maybe evoke some dirty but endearing words.

“Touch me,” Pete groaned, and Patrick curled his fingers around Pete’s cock, hard and heavy in his hand. More moans from Pete followed, who bucked his hips, grinded closer in a silent request for more. And Patrick was always willing to give him that.

 

Over the years, Patrick had learned what Pete liked and what he didn’t. Sometimes through words, sometimes through experience, sometimes through tears and yelling. Pete may have left the hooker rules behind, but that didn’t mean there weren’t restrictions for the real Pete, too.

No biting, no holding him down. No coming on his face, no coming _anywhere_ except inside a condom unless Pete allowed it. No hands near his wrists or his throat, ever. No more demeaning insults, no pulling his hair. When in doubt, it was best to not go with any position where Pete was facing away from him.

Gentle kisses and reassuring words. Looking Pete in the eye if the position allowed so. Caring for him afterwards, whether that meant cuddling and cleaning them up, or watching as Pete headed for the bathroom, alone, in need of a moment to himself.

Even following all of that didn’t always guarantee a pleasant experience. Pete didn’t have HIV, but that didn’t mean his customers left him unscathed. Even if his body had mostly recovered, that didn’t mean his mind had. Maybe, it never fully would.

 

Patrick picked up speed, bowed down, lips finding the curve of Pete’s neck. There’d be dark red on tan skin, there’d be dirty grins from Pete whenever he caught Patrick staring at it, all of which made Patrick’s heart beat faster. It didn’t take long until Pete fell apart underneath him, let out that little whimper Patrick had always loved so much, tightened around Patrick’s dick as he came all over himself and Patrick’s hand.

It was almost enough to let Patrick come as well, but he bit the inside of his cheek, squeezed his eyes shut and reminded himself of the absence of a condom with all its consequences.

“Pete,” Patrick said through gritted teeth, “Pete, I’m close… Can I – can I come inside of you? You okay with that?”

Pete was breathing heavily, and Patrick forced himself to hold still, to look into Pete’s eyes for any sign of distress, for a silent no that Pete didn’t dare to voice.

“You want to?” Pete said instead, with a predatory grin lighting up his face.

“Of course,” Patrick mumbled helplessly, “you feel so fucking good, Pete, and you look so goddamn beautiful, and I – fuck, I always want you, all of you…!” It wasn’t too eloquent, but Patrick was on the edge of coming, and all that held him back was his need to get Pete’s decision to either let him go on, or to pull out now.

“Good,” Pete whispered, “good, Patrick, ah, I want that, too – wanna feel you, wanna be yours…” Pete pulled him closer, legs wrapping around Patrick’s waist again. “Yours and yours alone, Patrick…”

With that, Patrick couldn’t hold back anymore. Heat flooded his body as he leaned over; he felt Pete slinging his arms around him, pulling him even closer, and fuck, fuck, everything felt so good – Pete still hot and tight around his cock, Pete moaning and clenching down around him with each thrust, Pete holding him close, half-veiled brown eyes staring up at Patrick, just his and his alone. Patrick came hard, deep inside of him, crying out Pete’s name.

 

Neither of them moved for a while. Patrick felt overwhelmed with emotions, thoughts clouded and hazy from his orgasm. But as soon as he regained a little control over himself again, he forced himself to sit up a little.

“’m gonna pull out,” Patrick mumbled; Pete just nodded, frowned at the sensation, and shuddered a little once he was left empty and leaking already. Patrick kept staring at him, worried that any second now, the mood might change, that any second, Pete would be flooded with regrets and disgust, with tears and anger over bad memories.

But Pete just sent him a lazy smile, reached out to cup Patrick’s jaw in his hand. “Stop looking so goddamn worried and kiss me, dumbass,” he said with a pout, and Patrick couldn’t help but laugh a little in relief.

There had been other times where sex hadn’t gone well, like when Pete had been on the verge of tears because his meds made his dick stay soft, or when the memories of someone else’s hand replaced reality with a nightmare.

Pete got his kiss (like he always did – Patrick wasn’t too good at saying no to him), then pushed Patrick off of him. “I want a bath,” he said, pouting again. “I want a bath with you, Patrick.”

“I’m spoiling you too much,” Patrick mumbled in reply, admitting that he would give in already.

That got a laugh out of Pete, who stuck his tongue out at him. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, but got up nonetheless, and headed for the bathroom. He didn’t really like to share a bathtub, and Pete acting like a brat was annoying, but right now, neither of those things bothered him. Patrick infinitely preferred that over the other outcomes there had been in the past – Pete being overwhelmed, Pete crying, Pete screaming, Pete being hurt and helpless… Pete wasn’t always the best in judging his limits, and there was only so much Patrick could do.

Today had gone so well, and Patrick’s relief and happiness over that overshadowed anything else.

 

 

 

Back in the bedroom, Pete stretched his limbs, and let out a yawn. He felt tired, had felt so for a while, given that he hadn’t slept yesterday night at all. But the tiredness right now felt different, deeper, with the promise of actual sleep. Hopefully, that would come true. Pete missed swallowing a couple of pills for that. It had been much easier. Would the ache for the easy solution ever stop? The answer, Pete knew, was _no_.

Pete tried to drop the thought, tried to focus on something else instead.

With a sigh, he got out of bed. One step at a time.

Bathroom, yes, Patrick would be there, as well as a bathtub. Pete wasn’t as rigid about cleaning up as he used to be, but right now, after this, he longed for warm water, soap, and a gentle hand to assist him.

 

Pete got what he wanted – hot water, the scent of soap as Patrick washed his hair and body, it was everything he had wished for. It made him feel warm and fuzzy inside, secure and overjoyed. It made him feel _loved_ , more than any grand gesture.  

“That’s enough,” Patrick muttered once Pete had returned the favor of scrubbing him clean. “It’s getting cold. Let’s get out.”

If things went according to Pete’s will, they’d stay in that bathtub for another hour, but he didn’t want to push Patrick’s limits too much. So, Pete got up, and got out.

Pete remembered his old self from three years ago, back when he had first sat in the bathtub in Patrick’s old apartment, with his arms slung around his legs and tears in his eyes, remembered how he had shrugged off the towel to offer trading sex for hospitality. Back then, it had made so much sense, and Patrick’s denial had angered him.

Today, Pete was someone else. Today, Pete could appreciate that Patrick had said no. Today, Pete wasn’t shaking from fear and coldness, he wasn’t the skinny little hooker with fading tattoos and washed-off make up who needed to be held.

Pete grabbed a second towel, determined to dry Patrick off. Usually, Patrick probably would’ve batted his hand away and said something about being an adult and not needing to be pampered, which Pete knew was just an excuse for insecurities. Patrick had grown a lot more comfortable around him, he wasn’t the John who needed to get half-drunk to lose his clothes in front of a goddamn hooker anymore, wasn’t the man he had been at the beginning for their relationship who always had fear in his eyes when Pete touched his naked body. But there were still moments of insecurity sometimes, still a need to pretend to be calm and collected and above being vulnerable.

Right now, though, Patrick just looked sated and blissful. There was a soft sigh as Patrick closed his eyes and let Pete dry him off. When he was done, Pete gathered Patrick in his arms, felt him lean into the embrace with another soft sigh that made Pete’s heart beat a little faster. Pete couldn’t help but let out a small laugh; love really was a strange thing.

 

Back in bed – Patrick in a worn-out pajamas, Pete just in a fresh pair of boxer shorts – Pete straddled his lap, bowed down for a kiss (now with freshly-brushed teeth, so that Patrick could stop complaining).

“I love you,” Patrick said afterwards, and Pete felt his heart skip a beat.

“I love you too,” Pete whispered back, and the words still brought a sparkle to Patrick’s eyes, made him smile so brightly just like the first time Pete had said it to him. It was sweet to see how much Patrick still treasured these moments, just how much they meant to him no matter how much time had passed, no matter the arguments they had, no matter all the small things that always made life oh so imperfect. It was one of the reasons Pete loved him so much.

He bowed down for another kiss, until Patrick pulled away with a chuckle. “Don’t fall asleep on me,” he said, still smiling. “C’mon, lay down.”

“Cuddle me?” Pete prompted, grinning when Patrick pulled him closer. He liked getting what he wanted from Patrick.

“Sleep well,” Patrick whispered into his ear, and Pete buried his face in Patrick’s chest. How many nights had there been where these words had been in vain? Today though, Pete felt the sleepiness taking over him, felt relief as he closed his eyes in exhaustion with the knowledge that sweet rest was waiting for him for once, and soon enough, Pete fell asleep.

 

 

 

Patrick lay awake a little longer. He heard Pete’s rhythmic breathing, felt his chest rising and falling under his arms. Pete just looked so peaceful, and Patrick couldn’t help but smile a little, couldn’t help but run a hand through Pete’s bleached hair.

There were enough days and nights that Pete spent sleepless, unable to keep the insomnia at bay. Patrick knew Pete hadn’t slept yesterday, that he had been up all night being antsy and pacing the house. Those were the moments Patrick couldn’t be there for him no matter how much he longed to be. Accepting that he couldn’t solve all of Pete’s problems, couldn’t always be there for him and that maybe, some damages couldn’t be undone – that had been difficult, a harsh realization that Patrick still struggled with sometimes.

Everything could’ve been so much easier if Patrick had never let the hooker get into his car, his apartment, his life, if he had never allowed Pete in. Though the truth was, Patrick knew he had lost the very first moment Pete had slid into his car with a mischievous grin – no, he had lost the very moment he hadn’t been able to drive by that pretty little hooker leaning against the wall, that moment he saw something in the hooker beyond just another anonymous pretty face. Patrick had lost and given in, but he had won so much that he couldn’t feel any regret.

Pete made a small noise in his sleep, and instinctively, Patrick pulled him closer. Pete in his arms, warm and happy and safe… It still never failed to make his heart ache a little, out of joy and love, out of protectiveness and the fear of losing Pete again. Patrick hoped that never came true, but he had also learned that the future was unpredictable.

How many obstacles had they overcome, how many fights had there been? A lot, fuck, a lot. How many were yet to come? Patrick didn’t know. Had it paid off to fight for Pete, for them? Oh, always, every single time. Would it be worth every hardship in the future? Patrick was sure it would.

There were still so many open questions, so many plans and dreams and wishes: all the unwritten songs to Pete’s words, music that just belonged to them; seeing Brendon grow up and be happy, healthy, maybe have a family of his own; would he and Pete get to have children, too? Patrick longed for those one day, and patiently waited for Pete to finally get over himself and make up his mind. It wasn’t easy, but he trusted Pete with that decision. One day… Oh, there was so much more to come yet.

 

Patrick didn’t always have control, still didn’t have the answers to so many questions.

 

But he had _Pete_ , and right now, that was all Patrick needed.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE THANKS TO EVERYONE OUT THERE!
> 
> To all my readers, for giving my scribblings a chance. To everyone who ever commented thank you, it is so much appreciated and it kept me motivated! To all my friends, you know who you are and you are loved and cherished so much - without you, I could not have done this. And I mean that.
> 
> This is the first work of such length I ever finished on my own, and I never thought I could do this. I stand corrected! It was over a year ago that I made one of the best and bravest choices ever and posted this fanfic, and I do not regret it one bit. It has given me so much - joy and amusement, frustration and tears, experience and confidence, and it gave me the chance to connect to so many people.   
> When I started, I had every intent to end this on a much sadder note... Well, over the course of the fanfic, the more I wrote, the less my original endings fit the story anymore. I don't think this final ending I went with is pure happiness, but how could there ever be a perfect happy ending when life is so messy? I believe it is the end they deserve for all the struggles and changes they went through. 
> 
> What do you think? Please feel free to leave a comment, it would mean the world to me. I would love, love, love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Also, find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr and if you like the story, please reblog the art, it would mean a lot!
> 
> From the bottom of my heart, thank you all. Goodbye, and may we see each other in my next fanfics!


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